


That Traitor, Time

by Frostwyvern



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Retelling, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:53:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 63,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24408352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostwyvern/pseuds/Frostwyvern
Summary: Byleth Eisner and the Blue Lions win Fódlan's war of unification but are unable to enjoy it when an attack by Those Who Slither in the Dark causes time to tear at the seams. When he wakes, Byleth finds himself reliving his life from five years ago with the added experience of having already survived it once; and this time he is determined to protect his students, no matter the cost.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 77
Kudos: 234





	1. LIFE'S TRUE COST

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for all routes ahoy.
> 
> This fic will focus on the Blue Lions, because they're my favourite, but will include students from the Golden Deer and the Black Eagles. I hope to include absolutely everyone, to some extent.
> 
> I was inspired by the multitude of time travel fics, but especially [godspeed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20157739/chapters/47757037) and [non-linearity.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20146903/chapters/47730487) Shout out to quagsire and shadow_panther for being awesome.

_30 th of the Verdant Rain Moon. Midday._

“El.”

  
Like a string being pulled from the top of her spine, Edelgard’s head rises bit by bit. It takes several agonising seconds before her pale violet eyes meet Dimitri’s, pain reflected between them like an infinity mirror.

In the reflections, Byleth finds that he does not know what to do, or how to act. There is a sudden flare of hope inside his ribcage that is nothing if not painful. His body and mind are exhausted, a soul deep exhaustion borne of war, and all he can think is a desperate plea.

  
 _Please_ , he thinks. _Please._

 _  
_Dimitri’s outstretched hand fills him with such pride that he feels bone-deep weariness burn in its wake. That optimism, that a beaten down man is still offering compassion to a woman who has brought war to the doorstep of the world.

  
All it will take for that war to end is for Edelgard to take the final step.

The movement is slow, slow enough that none of the three dare breathe as Edelgard lifts one hand, still so small and delicate, and interlinks her fingers with Dimitri’s.

  
“I remember,” she says, with a tone that betrays nothing of those simple words weight.

 _  
_Dimitri pulls her to her feet, and she is still so small. Her armour is dented and bloodied, her throat dark with blood, and royal bruise forming along her nose. The tension in the air is syrupy thick; to Byleth, it feels like breathing in fog. He can taste it, that and iron, fear sweat, the embodiment of desperation so closely clinging to them, the eye of the storm.

  
He can feel the eyes of the Lions on his back. Not just them- the whole world is watching.

  
The eagle and the lion stare one another down.

  
“What now?” Edelgard says, simply. It would have been so easy for her words to be a breath of exhaustion, but it is raw and honest. Her voice has an edge, but not an antagonistic one.

“We talk,” Dimitri replies, his own voice just as honest. There is no measure of sympathy, and not a gentle note- but nor is he accusing, hard, pointed.

  
Edelgard scoffs.

  
The noise is so sharp in the massive space that Byleth can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

  
“No,” Dimitri says, as both Edelgard and Byleth look at him, drawn by the conviction in his words, “ _We_ talk to Lady Rhea.”

Edelgard’s brows draw in, the flicker of despair across her features that she cannot fully hide.

  
“You and I will never agree,” she says, but her conviction is flagging.

  
“I don’t believe that,” Dimitri replies, “Not anymore. You wanted to change the world. So do I.”

Byleth hasn’t breathed a word, but something weighs on his mind, oppressive in its immensity.

Something about this isn’t right.

Edelgard’s lips are drawn tight, her chest rattles as she presses a defensive hand to her chest. And yet, she and Dimitri are stood face to face, honest and open, tentative in their shrinking gap but they’re finally working something out-

No. It didn’t end like this.

  
Edelgard has always been absolute in her convictions. She wouldn’t compromise. Since the first time he had seen the three lords, she had already committed herself to walking her own path, unfettered by anything and anyone else. It didn’t matter if her path was paved with corpses as long as the world was free of the influence that had hurt her so.

  
Defiant to the very end. He remembers now. A hand offered had been returned with a dagger.

There was no compromise in the end.

The scene distorts, sickeningly, throwing him off balance until he’s falling through nothing, through the floor and the ceiling.

Pain rears its ugly head to bite down on his spine, the small of his back suddenly aflame. He tries to press his head against something solid- he can feel the cold brick of the floor, and then someone lifts him.

It’s beyond nauseating.

Desperately, he pushes his forehead against anything solid. Fur tickles his chin, and even that is overstimulating. Someone’s hand presses against the back of his head, gingerly at first then with measured strength. Cradling him like something precious and breakable.

  
His hearing is muted, muffled, and distorted. There is certainly voices, overlapping. His head hurts so much he feels like it’s going to burst.

His thoughts become equally disjointed and disorientated.

  
It hurts. Where was father stabbed? Is it the same spot? A hereditary weakness?

  
A weakness. Everyone has one. His is blindly obvious, the little ones he loves oh so much.

Edelgard isn’t here, kneeling with them, with violet eyes and kindness somewhere in her heart.

She’s dead.

Her eyes were blank, her resolve all that’s left. She’s gone.

  
Maybe his weakness is always wanting the best for his students.

Byleth passes out.

_Imperial Year -_ _̶͝_ _̆_ _̢̙͖_ _8_ _̶͋_ _́_ _̗̠͜_ _7_ _̣, 1 st of the H_ _̴̔_ _́_ _̈́_ _͇̞_ _a_ _̴̛͙͉̺_ _r_ _̷͑̓_ _̈́_ _̺͙͇_ _p_ _̷_ _̆_ _̢͕͊_ _s_ _̷̹͑͐_ _t_ _̵_ _̄̕_ _͎_ _r_ _̵_ _̀_ _̈_ _͙̖͍_ _i_ _̶_ _̈́_ _͖͌̚_ _n_ _̶̩̯̽͌͜_ _g_ _̴̛̯̳_ _̶͊͗_ _̂_ _̩_ _M_ _̶_ _̊_ _̤͕̍̔ͅ_ _o_ _̵̛̖͐̔_ _̦_ _o_ _̷̜̹͛̾_ _n_ _̵_ _̒_ _͔͙ͅ_ _,_ _Noon._

The city is far below them, and she’s sat cross legged on one of the many statues that overlook the settlement. Annoyingly, bickering fills her ears as she tries to relax and take in the fruits of her labour.

  
“You knew what was happening,” the woman says, accusatory, “You must have known.”

  
Her voice is hushed, but still very much audible. Her ears flick in annoyance, tilting her head back to listen to the argument with a frown.

  
“How could I have known everything?” the man replies, “I wasn’t even here-“

  
“Shut up,” she says, languidly. The man and woman both stiffen, shooting her a guilty glance.

  
“Sorry mother,” they both intone, heads bowed.

  
“Tch, honestly,” she mutters, “Cichol, it’s-“

  
She trails off, blinking. A wave of fog and then panic rush over her, as she looks down at her hands in panic.

They’re bleeding.

Her skin is beginning to peel away, revealing flesh and bone. Bones that glow.

She feels like she’s floating away from her body, no matter how hard she tries to cling on, and it’s like her very form is being broken apart and pulled away, just a sack of skin and meat, not fit for a god or a king.

Please, she thinks, desperately, please stop. Stop! Stop! Stop!-

_31 st of the Verdant Rain Moon. Evening._

Jarringly, he is back in his own body. Said body refuses to budge, so instead he lets out a groan.

  
Good enough.

  
“Professor?”

  
Someone’s weight makes the bed dip on the left; they’re leaning on it, their forearm against his. He can feel their presence, even if he’s struggling to open his eyes, and feel the warmth. His sluggish mind takes a few moments to recognise the voice, put it to a face.

  
“It’s okay,” Dimitri says, his words coming out in a tumble and a rush, “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

Byleth forgoes trying to speak this time, instead attempting to open his eyes. There’s the quiet creak of the bed, accommodating his weight and Dimitri’s, the sound of voices from other rooms, echoing gently into this one. The soft sound of the wind, through curtains. Crickets, singing a nightly song.

  
Byleth blinks away the remainder of the blinding light, which dims, and recedes into a sapphire blue.

Dimitri is indeed leaning on the bed. He’s half-seated, half-standing; concern and relief warring on his face. The concern wins out for a moment, as strands of hair slip in front of his face, and he shuffles closer.

  
“Sorry,” Byleth manages to rasp, managing to twitch one hand with great effort. Dimitri blinks in surprise, and then frowns with startling intensity. He shifts his weight to free one of his arms and takes Byleth’s hand to squeeze it.

  
“Do not apologise,” he scolds, “It isn’t needed. Though-“

  
His eye darts away as he hesitantly sits back down, his frown changing from conviction to a softer form of distress.

  
“You did scare me,” he admits.

The softness in his voice scares Byleth anew, though he’s not sure why. He can’t think of what to say, so they sit for a moment.

Dimitri’s hands are scarred. Burns run along them, warping the skin into canyons and grooves and pink, angry skin. It’s faded after nearly ten years, but still, the scars remain.

  
“What happened?” Byleth says, worried about how his chest seizes and shudders as Dimitri runs a thumb over his knuckles. He’ll ask a medic later. No need to concern anyone right now.

  
“Edelgard refused to compromise,” Dimitri states. He leans back, looking out the window, lost in thought- “I respect it, in a way. But at the same time…”

  
He trails off.

His throat bobs as he swallows, his remaining eye almost glazing over as he ruminates. Byleth can see it, the wheels of his mind turning. He knows Dimitri well, knows that he’s going through everything Edelgard has ever done.

All the people she hurt. Her reasons, her justifications. Trying to make math of bodies, and failing, because his heart is too soft.

  
Or maybe Edelgard’s was too hard.

  
As the night’s shadows creep up Dimitri’s face, he can still read the sorrow in it.

  
“You did everything you could,” Byleth says, strong in that truth if nothing else- “I’m proud of you.”

  
Dimitri lets out a dry laugh, sarcastic and biting. Even as it leaves his mouth he cringes, shooting Byleth a guilty look. He ducks his head, ashamed.

  
“Sorry,” he murmurs, quickly, “Habit.”

  
“It’s okay,” Byleth echoes, squeezing his hand. He looks up and smiles wanly, but there is a genuine look of gratitude in his eye.

  
“Thank you,” he answers, earnestly. “Truly. I can’t forgive her for what she’s done- what she did. But still, I want to know what forced her hand like this. I owe her that. I owe everyone that.”

  
He inhales and exhales, consciously.

  
“For everything that has fallen, and everyone, we owe the world an explanation for its sorrow.”

  
Byleth nods in agreement, and sensing the tense, sad silence that threatens them, begins to sit up.

  
“Is everyone okay?” he asks, as Dimitri straightens up in alarm at his attempts to sit up. They silently struggle against one another, Byleth trying to sit up and Dimitri hovering nervously.

  
“Worse for wear,” Dimitri admits, with something between amusement and bone-deep exhaustion, “But yes. Now please, lie down, professor. You’re still healing.”

“You’re sat up,” Byleth argues, even hearing their own petulant tone. “Why can’t I?”

  
“Professor,” Dimitri says, fondly, pushing him down with a feather-light touch. Byleth relents, with a pout. Dimitri’s eye shines with amusement, but he doesn’t comment on it this time.

  
“Lady Rhea?” Byleth asks, resting his head back. It begins to pound, again, but for now he can ignore it.

  
“Fragile from her captivity,” Dimitri says, looking a little fraught, “But alive, thankfully.”

  
Byleth hums in affirmation.

  
Crickets chirp. The curtains sway.

Dimitri’s breathing, steady and solid, is a balm. Not long ago, he huffed and wheezed, tortured even in his heart’s beat and the breath in his lungs.

  
“You?” Byleth asks, opening his eyes to pin Dimitri with them.

Dimitri is clearly caught off-guard by the question, bemusement working over his face. He tilts his head to the side, lips parting. After a moment, he points at himself.

  
“Me?” he asks, with absolute innocence. Byleth huffs with laughter, unable to control it at the childlike, wonderful response.

  
He’s still looking at him with that wide-eyed non-comprehension, so Byleth gestures for him to come closer.

There is no hesitation. No question, just obedience as stands fully to perch sidelong on the bed.

Byleth’s eyes crease, softening, as he reaches for Dimitri’s forehead and guides him backwards from there. Dimitri lets out a wordless noise of surprise as Byleth gently but insistently pulls him backwards until the king’s head rests in his lap.

He’s so tall that his feet are still resting on the floor.

  
“P-Professor?” he manages to squeak out, so flustered that for a moment Byleth sees him five years younger, with sharply cropped hair and both eyes. The concern in his eyes is the same. He hopes to match it, with added ferocity as he narrows his eyes. Dimitri’s cheeks turn a rosy pink at the stare, and he looks away.

“Are you okay?” he asks, with his professor voice fully on. A serious question in need of a serious answer, and he recognises that. His expression turns contemplative as he looks away.

For a few moments, Dimitri is silent.

  
“I’m okay,” he admits, quietly- as if even uttering it out loud may curse it out of existence. Or, perhaps, that he shouldn’t be okay at all.

“Good,” Byleth replies, just as quiet, but warmer. “Now, relax.”

Dimitri stiffens as if adverse to the very word, turning his head back to meet Byleth’s with a look of worry.

“But I-“

Byleth gives him another professor look.

“That’s your goal, from your professor,” he says, deadly serious.

“Oh,” Dimitri murmurs, still a little flushed but with a twinkle in his eye. “Then I won’t disobey you.”

A tiny wry smile crosses Byleth’s face.

  
“Good boy,” he says.

It’s just the truth, and in Byleth’s usual, neutral tone- but, amusingly, the heat in Dimitri’s cheeks intensifies.

“Mmph,” he mumbles, defeated.

He has no real way of knowing how long he was out for, nothing to go on except the velvet night rolling in. At a guess, he was out for a few hours, but he has no idea how long the battle in the castle went on for. It felt like days. Maybe it’s been a whole day.

He thinks for a moment of asking Dimitri, but with him half-laid over his lap, his eye closed and something like fragile peace on his face- he thinks better of it.

  
It’s surprisingly easy to go back to sleep.

Usually, he hates sleeping. Sleeping is vulnerability. He sleeps with his back against a wall wherever possible, a weapon under the pillow, fingers around its hilt. He sleeps with an escape plan, with no clutter in the way, he sleeps ready to run.

Being pinned to the spot by Dimitri’s weight shouldn’t comfort him. He is sure, were it anyone else, it would. But-

The lines are easing from his face, even more so when Byleth sleepily cards a hand through Dimitri’s hair, running his fingers through his scalp.

“Professor,” Dimitri mumbles, barely conscious.

“Sleep,” Byleth whispers, and they both do.

_1 st of the Horsebow Moon. Morning._

Usually, he sleeps both fitfully and deeply- thrashing and weeping, but only waking up in dire circumstances.

Sometimes he sleeps through the night and remembers only sweet echoes in the morning.

Sometimes he wakes up after twenty minutes and can not sleep the rest of the night, his very bones restless and lonely.

Sometimes he kicks and screams wordlessly, fighting an invisible foe, and sometimes he knows he hasn’t moved one inch.

This time, the sound of laughter wakes him up.

Tinkling, like a wind chime caught in an easy breeze. A lovely sound. It lulls him, lures him to the waking world. The echo is quiet, like a memory of an embrace he can’t recall, but with the warm, basking warmth of knowing love.

Byleth yawns and stirs awake. He blinks, long latches catching as his eyes adjust. The laughter cuts off immediately, stifled likely by the hand of its owner.

“Whosit?” Byleth manages, squinting one eye shut and looking around for the culprits. Indeed, by the window, are the culprits- at first, they try to hide behind the curtains.

He probably would have overlooked the lumpy curtains, but Felix had refused to play along, and he was harder to miss.

They lock eyes, both expressions neutral, before someone intervenes.

“It’s just us,” Sylvain says cheerfully, subtly giving up on his attempt to slip away, “And pay is no mind professor, we’re just leaving.”

Byleth blinks at him, confused at the blatant mirth on his expression. And from behind him, Felix, and Annette. Felix is smiling- actually smiling- but it’s also amused, even if less brazenly. Annette is averting her eyes, covering her mouth with one hand.

Byleth shoots them a look of mild confusion.

“We didn’t mean to disturb you,” Annette chirps, earnest but very much tickled.

Byleth looks down to where Dimitri has, at some point during the night, climbed onto the bed fully. He’s still asleep, his breath tickling the hollow of Byleth’s throat; their legs are intertwined. Even relaxed, Byleth can feel the muscle in Dimitri’s, the raw power. It’s innocent- but it probably doesn’t look it.

“You didn’t,” Byleth says neutrally, personally unperturbed by the situation but aware, in a sleepy way, that Dimitri might be.

It doesn’t really matter what their opinions might be on the matter, for their audience has clearly made up their own minds.

Sylvain looks entirely smug, like the cat that caught the canary. He’s leaning his weight on one foot, one hand folded under his chin, and Byleth swears he hasn’t blinked. At least until he shoots him a wink and taps his nose.

“We won’t tell,” he sing-songs.

“Tell what?” Byleth answers, almost oblivious. “Please keep your voices down.”

“You don’t want us to wake him?” Annette says, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she can stop it. Her glee is a halo, leading her grin, before she hides her face again.

Sylvain raises his hands in mock surrender.

“I’m glad you’re in one piece,” Felix says, his voice low. His expression is sweet and sour, vulnerable in the eyes but a scowl on his face. “Is the b-“

He clears his throat.

“Dimitri,” he says, and Sylvain’s eyebrows raise in surprise and scandal, “Dead?”

Annette whacks his arm with the back of her hand.

“Felix!” she hisses, scandalised.

“Shoo,” Byleth deadpans back, fully aware that they can see the rise and fall of Dimitri’s chest. “Shoo, bad children.”

“Owch,” Sylvain replies, putting a wounded hand to his chest. “And here we came to check on you. You are a cruel, cruel master.”

Felix grabs his wrist to pull him out of the room. Annette pauses, scurrying over to the bed and putting a basket of sweet-smelling baked goods down on the end table.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she stage-whispers, before fleeing after the two boys.

Byleth doesn’t go back to sleep after that.

It’s light, for one, the birds chirping from the awnings outside the window. The bed is a shock of plushness after weeks of being on the road, and Dimitri’s weight is a secret, lovely thing.

Dimitri, like most people, doesn’t enjoy being stared at. He remembers this. Most will avert their eyes under Byleth’s striking gaze, make jokes and sweat, unable to take the full force of his attention. In this, Dimitri is no different. Byleth may be oblivious to many social cues, but he understands enough not to want to make his students uncomfortable.

Thus, in this situation, this quiet morning, he can indulge in his habit. He curls his fingers in the soft hair at the nape of Dimitri’s neck, lets his eyes roam across his sleeping face, reacquainting himself with the structure of his face.

He’s looking less gaunt and haunted by the day; and it fills him with relief to see it. The line of his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, are severe and strong. His hair is still pulled back, but some strands have broken free overnight, framing his face, messy and natural.

He can’t help the rising swell of affection that fills his chest.

It’s almost like how Sothis would feel, seeing things she didn’t remember but once loved dearly. Byleth watches Dimitri’s peaceful, sleeping face, and though his mind shies away from the word like a stove-top burning, he still finds himself shyly basking in it. How far he has come. How lucky he is to share this moment with the liberator king.

Eventually, he turns his prying eyes away and looks out the window.

The sun is obscured by the gossamer veil across the glass, the thick curtains drawn back. He is glad for the rest. He hasn’t felt this rested in a long time, he thinks, and the wounds from the battle at the palace are no longer nagging.

Damn. He forgot to ask the three intruders how long he was out.

Dimitri shifts his weight, waking himself in the process. He tilts his head to the side, still resting on Byleth’s collarbone, and yawns.

  
“Professor?” he asks, his voice heavy with sleep and punctuated with another yawn. “How-mm-are you feeling?”

  
“I am fine, Dimitri,” Byleth answers, turning his gaze back to the king, sprawled across his chest and tangled limbs between them.

  
Dimitri grunts in affirmation, and Byleth lets him lie there, aware that, should he draw attention to their current position, he will likely bolt. With a twinge of guilt, he finds that he doesn’t want Dimitri to move. Maybe that is not an appropriate thing to think. Still- he doesn’t particularly understand why he would. The Lions have always been close, all of them often invading the other’s personal space, chairs pushed together, blankets shared, and beds occasionally ignored entirely.

  
The idea of the rules being different for him, still being their ‘professor’, makes him feel a little sour.

  
(Even that seems unlikely. Everyone else always hugs him, holds his hand, walks into his room at any time. They trust him. And he knows Dimitri trusts him too.)

  
Regardless of Byleth’s thoughts, it doesn’t last, because Dimitri nuzzles closer and his breath _tickles_.

Byleth tries, and fails, to stifle his laughter. That is what wakes Dimitri up fully.

His eye blinks open and he regards Byleth with genuine surprise, kind warmth, and then- scandalised shock, as he realises how close their faces are, and, consequently, the position he has snaked himself into overnight.

  
Dimitri lets out a strangled noise from his chest. Hastily, Byleth puts a hand on top of his head.

  
“It’s okay-“

  
“I’m sorry-“

  
They stare at one another.

  
“It’s okay,” Byleth repeats, quickly and forcibly, before Dimitri can beat him to the punch, “I like having you near.”

  
Dimitri’s eye widens exponentially. He swallows visibly, and then ducks his head to obscure whatever his follow up expression is.

  
“I like being near you too,” he echoes. His voice wavers, and Byleth wonders why.

  
There is a tense moment of silence before Dimitri sniffs experimentally and turns his head towards the basket of baked goods.

  
“Annette brought them,” Byleth supplies, removing a hand from Dimitri’s head to help himself to a small cake. Still warm. He barely stops himself shovelling it into his face. “Sylvain and Felix too.”

  
“I see,” Dimitri murmurs, fondly, then he goes as stiff as a board. “Wait, Sylvain and Felix? Do you mean they saw… uh…”?

  
He trails off nervously.

  
“Yes,” Byleth says, nonplussed even as Dimitri brings a hand up to rest his forehead on it. He takes a large bite of the cupcake. “Felix asked if you were dead. Sylvain-“

  
“Goddess, don’t tell me,” Dimitri interrupts, with an intense wince.

With that, he untangles himself, letting out a satisfied groan as his neck cracks audibly. He leans back on the balls of his feet and stretches his arms over his head. His undershirt rides up.

Byleth takes another bite of his cupcake.

  
“They came to check up on you,” Byleth explains, sitting up himself. He’s a little sore from being pinned all night, but very well rested, nonetheless.

  
Dimitri’s lips quirk.

  
“More likely they came to check up on you,” he corrects, releasing his hair tie to put his hair up in a more tidy way, “Ah, I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

  
“Hear the end of what?” Byleth asks, taking another cupcake out of the basket.

  
Dimitri looks at him sidelong, a pale, dusky pink taking up residence in the tips of his ears.

  
“Nothing,” he says, evasively.

  
Byleth decides not to pursue it.

After chomping down on his second cupcake, he swings his legs around and hesitantly stands up. A rather worrying twinge runs down his back. He sees out of the corner of his eye as Dimitri steps closer until Byleth holds up a hand.

  
“I’m alright,” he says, frowning. The twinge, fortunately, goes away. He turns around to Dimitri and shoots him a small smile. “I’m alright.”

  
Dimitri bows in response, with his own smile.

  
“Wonderful,” he replies, “I suppose we must sort out the semantics of our victory.”

  
Conflict dances in his eyes at the word ‘victory.’

More than that, the sentence hangs in the air, enormous and nebulous.

“Together,” Byleth says, breaking the tension, taking Dimitri’s hand, squeezing it. “Together.”

_8 th of the Horsebow Moon. Evening._

The moon and sun sit in equilibrium. The sun dips just below the horizon as the moon rises high, slowly growing brighter as the sun sinks lower. Pale pinks and blues mix like paint on a canvas into a beautiful pastel, the tiny dots of white stars showing through the clouds.

Whilst it feels good to watch the sky and know the world isn’t going to burn whilst he does, worry still keeps its icy hands around Byleth’s neck. Those hands come from a letter tucked into his cloak; even so, he sits down on the grass to wait. Sleep is tempting, to pass the time if nothing else, but it is a devil he doesn’t wish to invite inside.

Wind whips overhead. He blinks and searches the horizon for its source; a small smile crosses his face, fond if exasperated. With a quiet sigh he gets to his feet. His smile grows tighter, thinner. High above, coming through the clouds, is a white wyvern. The closer it comes, the thinner his smile becomes, because something-

Something is wrong.

The white wyvern is erratic and dropping altitude rapidly. With every wing beat, every foot closer, more damage is evident. Dirt, and blood.

Byleth clenches his jaw. His skin prickles, his blood chilling in his veins. Tension coils as he waits, taking a few steps forward, trying to anticipate where it will land.

It ends up being right on top of him.

Shouts of alarm ring from the soldiers nearby, but he has no time to inform them of what’s going on- he ducks the buckling wing of the wyvern and catches the rider who half jumps, half slips off the saddle.

“Claude,” he says with urgency, biting his lip as he loops an arm around Claude’s back. He’s shaking with fatigue, holding one foot off the ground, and Byleth lowers him down awkwardly until they both hit the ground.

Byleth cautiously lets go. Next to them, the wyvern slumps, equally exhausted. It lets out a dejected rumble which vibrates through Byleth’s chest. It rests his chin on Claude’s shoulder. Blood trickles between its teeth, staining the vibrant fabric underneath Claude’s soot-dusted armour.

“Hey teach,” Claude manages, surprisingly coherent and still keeping his charismatic tone, even as sweat drips down the side of his face. “Did you-“

“Let me heal you,” Byleth interrupts, raising a hand to run it over him, white light spilling and glowing along his fingers.

“Oh,” Claude says, jaw snapping shut. Pain flashes over his face, for just a second, then it’s gone. “Yeah. Sure. Please.”

The hex burns on his shoulder fade into a shadow. The weeping cut that runs a jagged jaw along his calf knits back together. The fractured ribs that are confirmed after an experimental poke-

“Ow! Are you really a certified medic?”

“No,” Byleth answers blandly, fixing the hairline fractures through Claude’s armour.

He doesn’t know the ex-Alliance leader as well as he does the lion’s king. They’re friends, he hopes, but his read on Claude isn’t as easy. What he can assume, though, is the looming seriousness of this situation.

Claude is a talker. He fills the silence. He likes to pick, find weaknesses, find strengths. He’s quiet, now, his eyes lidded.

“Can I trouble you to heal Sultan too?” he asks, rubbing his palms together to remove the dried blood. It flakes off into the grass.

Byleth nods, placing a hand behind him to twist around to Claude’s white wyvern. Sultan rumbles, intelligent eye cracked open.

He uses the rest of his healing spells on Sultan. He gets up, running a finger along his scales. The nasty looking cut that runs from its lips and gums pulls back together. He removes the arrows lodged in its underbelly, soothes and knits the puncture wounds. Patches up the hole in its wing. When he’s done, Sultan shifts its head from Claude’s shoulder to his, giving him a headbutt. He twists his head to the side to avoid the antlers.

He scratches Sultan under the chin, and feels Claude’s eyes on him. Exacting as ever. That, at least, is reassuring.

“So,” Claude says.

“Claude!” Dimitri calls, jogging over to them. The soldiers are still talking, in hushed tones. He crouches down, putting a hand on Claude’s forearm. He takes a few seconds to look him up and down before a stormy expression invades. “Who did this?”

Claude’s lips twist into a wry, almost bashful, smile.

“Awh,” he coos, “You’re worried about me!”

“Claude,” Byleth says, sitting down next to him.

He nods, the sarcasm dripping away. There is a bruise blossoming on his right cheek, that reaches to his nose. The strand of hair that usually falls along his face is pushed back, and hard with blood.

“I came to warn you,” he says, heaving a deep sigh. “Of the real threat.”

Dimitri glances at Byleth. Byleth feels worry’s icy hands become stress’ frigid chokehold.

“I went looking for the people behind the scenes. I thought it was the church- I’m still convinced they’re part of it. But they aren’t the ones who experimented on Lysithea. And Edelgard.”

“And?” Dimitri asks, “Did you find them?”

Claude raises an eyebrow, flourishing a hand down at his current state.

“What do you think?” Claude shoots back, not unkindly. Dimitri shuffles closer, frowning. “Sorry, your highness. Yes, I found them. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say they found me.”

He raises his eyes to the sky. The pastel hue is turning darker by the second.

“Those who slither in the dark,” he says.

It hangs in the air between them.

“Quite the name,” Byleth comments.

“Yeah,” Claude agrees, “Still, I wouldn’t underestimate them. I hope if we combine our intel we can pinpoint where they’re based. Or at least predict their movements.”

“We’re going to have a fight on our hands,” Dimitri murmurs, deep in thought. “If they used Edelgard to get to this point, then we can’t underestimate them.”

There’s a pit in Byleth’s stomach. When he shuts his eyes, the hatred almost overwhelms him, envelops him, becomes him. Revenge becomes me, his heart screams, in a tone that his brain barely understands.

“Teach?”

Byleth opens his eyes, realising Claude’s concerned look, and Dimitri’s hands trying to open the excruciatingly tight fists he didn’t realise he’d curled into.

Blood fills under his nails.

It doesn’t feel like a good sign.

_11 th of the Horsebow Moon. Midday._

Enbarr is under siege for the second time in two months.

Byleth inhales a ragged, painful lungful of air before his feet hit the flagstone. His calves scream with pain as he sprints as fast as he can make himself. The dread he’s feeling is a living thing, a person of its own, breathing down his neck. There’s a magical pattern weaving in the sky above the city and when it’s done, they will be outmatched. But Byleth will not be outmanoeuvred so easily.

He hopes.

Instinct takes over as he stretches one hand up, towards the sky. His crest flares behind his head, a divine statement, and white light pierces from inside out, out into the sky.

The magical pattern is broken. It vibrates and shatters, flares of magic dropping to the ground. Even disrupted, it screams as it falls, explosions that make the world shake when they hit the ground. Windows rattle inside their frames. Brick breaks and falls to streets and canals below. Byleth lets out a choked breath, bracing his hands on his knees. His chest is seizing. His heart doesn’t beat but where it should, it’s screaming.

That pause is the mistake. He knows the minute that it happens. He should have kept running. He’s out in the open, away from his allies, and he isn’t quick enough to react when pain lances right through his chest.

Someone screams his name.

It’s a wild, anguished shout, but he can’t hear, can barely see. He can only see the way the brick slots together. That’s it. As his life falls apart, all he can focus on is the bricks, fitting together. If one brick was in the wrong place, it would all fall apart.

He growls low on his throat, gritting his teeth. He reaches out, blindly, desperate for a counterbalance.

Magic clashes, jarring and alien.

He knows that Thales- it must be Thales- is trying to kill him once and for all. Maybe that’s it. Or maybe it’s more sinister than just death. They used Edelgard. Maybe they want to use him too.

With great effort he lifts his head. Tears drip down his face, stream down. Thales is across from him, an unnatural sheen to his already unnaturally pale face. This is it. If he doesn’t resist, he’ll die.

The thoughts are his. And they are hers, too.

_Who will protect them if I am gone? Who will watch over them if I am gone? Who will love them if I am gone?_

Byleth screams. He has never screamed before, not like this. Never before has the emotion been so overwhelming that it has torn through every cell in his body, until all he can do is scream.

_I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die!_

_S_ othis lets out an ear-splitting howl, agony made audible. The wail of a goddess killed and torn apart to make weapons of her pieces. A thousand years of grief, lighting up the sky.

Thales tries to tear them apart- and they retaliate. The fabric of the world rips open; spills out. Darkness, and then-

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

There is nothing.


	2. THE CALL OF YESTERDAY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My plan is/was a weekly update schedule but I want to get this one out there to prove that it's not being abandoned at one chapter! Okay hope you enjoy it <3

_Į̶̲̦̅̉͆ṁ̷̱̅͝p̶̬͚̥̊e̶̛͚̤͛̕r̴̢͕̉i̷̬̘̪͘ǎ̶̦̎l̷̤͖͒͑ ̷̯͆ͅY̷̡͈͌e̵̯͐͑ą̵̫̤͌̔ř̵̳̼̿͜ ̴͖͘ͅ?̴̛̣̀̄?̴̛̣̪ͅ?̸͉̳̭̀,̵̨̡̛͔̈́̎ ̸͖̍̍̚?̵̰͙̀?̷̘̹̳̓̾?̶͉͎̥͊ ̸̜͊̽̃o̵̬̗̰̽̐̃f̵͙̣̦͐̕͝ ̵͙̙͒̋̃t̷̬̫̍͋h̶̦̙͌̔̚e̷̡͖͝ ̵̬̺͉͂̓?̵̢̲͉̀̓̋?̵̰̲̝̓͌͑?̵͕̲ͅ.̸̥͊̐ ̶̞̌̇?̸̬̩̆̽?̷̼͛̔?̷͕̘̀̂.̸̮̋͆̔_

Byleth has no time to think before nausea throttles him. He wretches, shocked at the intensity of his own pain; again, and again. Blood fills his lungs, his throat. It dribbles from his lips, his nose, each painful convulsion expelling more.

He blinks away the tears in his eyes. His vision swims but-

This is the stone dais, the seat of the goddess.

Has his blood always been green?

“Sothis,” he chokes, weakly, “Are you here?”

Soft, graceful hands pull his hair away from his face. He can’t see them, but he can feel them all the same.

“I am always here,” Sothis re-assures, then less gently, “Foolish child.”

Byleth tries to sit up, shock and desperation overtaking the pain- his need to see Sothis stronger than any pain- but he only succeeds in shivering violently, and nearly knocking himself out on the steps. He covers his face with his hands, trying to suppress the surge to vomit even more of his organs out.

“Honestly,” Sothis chides, still pushing his hair back, “I leave you and you do this! It is as if you cannot live without me.”

He can hear her lift her chin petulantly, even if his eyes are tightly shut.

“I literally cannot,” he manages to wheeze back, “You keep me alive.”

“Nonsense,” Sothis snaps, “If you truly believe that, then you are double the fool I think you to be. No- you are a petulant child, and lucky that I put my faith in you!”

The nausea ebbs, thankfully, giving him just enough of a respite to look up. Sothis is not there. Rather, she is not visible, even if he can feel her fingers silently working his hair into braids.

It’s strange, speaking into nothingness.

“I missed you,” he says, quietly.

“I know,” comes her soft reply, “Save your tears, professor. I know your heart. It is mine- ours, both.”

He shifts his legs awkwardly, glad that in this not-place, the blood has disappeared as quickly as it flowed.

It takes a lot of energy to get to his feet, but he manages it. Shakily. His legs tremble like a new-born calf.

“What’s happening?” he asks, rubbing his hands down his arms in an attempt to feel just a little more secure- a little warmer. Not that there’s any temperature to speak of in this place.

“Can you not think for yourself? Must I think for you?” Sothis snaps, her voice resounding through his ears and his whole body.

“I have no thoughts on the matter,” Byleth manages, with a rough cough. “You’re the smart one.”

“You would do well to improve your flattery, for both our sakes,” Sothis says, rolling her eyes. “Nevertheless, I will do as you so arduously demand.”

Finally, he can see her. A glimmer of light that expands out into a person- or a goddess, in this case.

“You look different,” he says, unable to stop himself from stating the obvious.

She does. Before she looked youthful, almost like a child, in a timeless way. She still has that timeless look, but now it is regal and defined. She looks like an adult, his own age or a little older. Her outfit is the same, intricate and awe-inspiring. She flourishes, spinning in the air, a twinkle in her eyes.

Eyes- her pupils are vertical, like a dragon’s.

“Yes,” she says, with a cheeky wink, “Observant. I believe this is how I used to look. Or, at least, it is closer to it than I was before. I am not the only one.”

“Huh?” Byleth says, with a blink. Sothis waves a hand in dismissal, and Byleth is in no position to push.

“Do you want to know what happened or not?” she asks, impatiently.

She doesn’t wait for Byleth’s nod. Instead she rests her chin on her curled fist.

“That man, what was it? Thanos? Talon? Timothy?”

Byleth snorts, shaking his head. Sothis fists her other hand on her hips, shooting him a glare.

“Thales-“

“Yes! Anyway- He wanted to separate us and use my power. That is my assumption. Instead, we thwarted his attempt. So now we are here again.”

Byleth stares at her.

She stares back, and then stomps her feet, her hair cascading as it floats around her.

“Do I have to spell it out?! I had to pull us from time. So now we are in some other time.”

They lapse into silence, but her anger betrays something else- panic. She’s frightened, and Byleth finds that he is too. He reaches out for her hand, and she takes it.

“Anyway,” she says, breaking the tension, “The time you lost in Zahras’ darkness? It seems it has been thrust upon you now.”

Dread settles around Byleth like a shroud. The excitement of being reunited with Sothis isn’t fading- but the reality of the situation is sinking in.

It’s dire. And-

“Huh?”

Sothis waves a hand. Water laps at his feet, creating ripples and waves. An inch of it laps at the steps of the dais.

“See for yourself,” she says, mysteriously.

Byleth turns and stares down. The water she has summoned has a mirror sheen. His reflection stares back, and with it, his gut churns. An emotion he cannot identify.

Like Sothis, he looks older. His jaw squarer, his cheekbones sharper, his shoulders broader, his arms a little thicker. Even his legs seem just a bit longer. This is, he supposes, how he should look. More pressingly, his hair hangs in a shaggy, untamed mop.

“Can I give myself a haircut?”

Sothis gives him a blank look.

“In general?” she asks, with biting sarcasm, “I suppose you aren’t the most-“

“In here,” Byleth corrects.

Sothis’ eyebrows shoot up before she blows a vicious raspberry.

“Don’t interrupt me!” she complains, “But yes. Think and it will be. You are me. You know that.”

So Byleth closes his eyes and thinks.

He thinks of his father.

When he opens them, he can’t help the twist of his lips. Melancholy. His eyes fill with tears for a moment before he blinks them away.

Ripples run across his reflection.

“I see,” Sothis says, softly.

She drapes her arms over his shoulders.

“You look like him. Very handsome.”

They lapse into comfortable, sad silence.

Byleth stares down at the face reflected in the water, a face he does not recognise, and wonders what the feeling is that fills him.

It feels like time, slipping away. Is there a word for it, he wonders? A word for how jarring it is to see his own reflection, and see his father staring back, in the cheeks, the nose, the neutral look?

“I miss him,” Byleth says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” Sothis murmurs, pressing her forehead against the top of his head; “I can feel your sorrow. You have known loss.”

He closes his eyes.

“You’ve lost more than me,” he says.

Sothis hums for a moment. He can feel her thinking- not just in her humming, but in their shared soul. She’s contemplating.

“Perhaps. But I was not around to see it.”

With her feet planted in front of him, she grasps his face until he opens his eyes and meets hers. They have a power unlike anything, or anyone, else.

“Besides that, it matters not. Loss is loss. Grief does not care for measuring sticks; it is always itself.”

The water around their feet dissipates, and Sothis releases his face. Byleth swallows his grief, for now. There are more important matters, like-

“Am I dead?” Byleth asks, his voice sharp with the realisation.

“Obviously not,” Sothis answers, rolling her eyes- but not unkindly- “I believe that we have been thrown back in time. You are simply asleep. When you wake, be vigilante. We cannot know where or when you will be.”

“What does it mean?” Byleth asks, aware that his questioning is futile.

Sothis shrugs before folding her arms.

“I do not know,” she answers, truthfully.

The unknown hangs in the air like a noose between them. Byleth is made uncomfortable by it- he hates not knowing, and this is very much an unknown scenario. Still, it could be worse. It could be far worse.

He steels himself, standing up straighter and giving Sothis a small smile.

“I’m glad we can talk again,” he says.

Sothis interlinks their fingers once again.

“As am I, dear professor,” she replies, “Now, do not die. We will face this toget-“

The goddess is cut off mid-sentence as the jarring, painful pull of consciousness drags him from the void, from the stone dais, from the woman who shares his soul. Pulled, pulled back into the waking world.

_Imperial Year 1180. 20th of the Great Tree Moon. Morning._

The room is still dark when he wakes up. It’s not without the nausea, and the pounding headache, but he’s alive- he thinks.

It takes his eyes a few seconds to adjust. The room is sparse. A rather cheap inn. There’s a book next to the rickety bed, a burnt-out candle, a torn but well-loved blanket wrapped around him.

It can’t be, he thinks to himself, incredulous.

“And why not? I told you, we are in the past. We have begun once again.”

Sothis appears in a glimmer of light, settling on the bed next to him.

It is as he thinks- Remire village, before it was burnt down, before the Flame Emperor, meaning or not, brought death upon innocent folk.

Byleth sits up, rubbing a hand over his face before pushing back his hair. An experimental ruffle confirms that his mental haircut carried over to a physical one- something he can’t even begin to question right now. Sothis shifts on the bed, soundlessly, and runs her hand through his hair too before she begins to redo the braid she did in their mind.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, disorientated.

Sothis hums, finishing off the braid identical to his father’s.

“Wait,” Byleth says, “Does this mean-“

The door creaks open. Light trickles in, silhouetting a large figure standing before it. A figure he’d know no matter what time they are in, past, present, or future.

“Oh, you’re up,” Jeralt rumbles, his voice rough from lack of sleep, from only waking up a few minutes ago himself, “That’s not like you-“

He looks exactly as Byleth remembers. A gruff but warm mercenary, timeless in his comforting appearance, but intimidating in his broad shoulders. Father, his mind supplies, in a primal, childish way. Mine.

Byleth bolts to his feet and crosses the room in three strides before crushing Jeralt in the fiercest hug he can manage. He desperately inhales a deep lungful of leather polish and fresh dirt. The faint smell of metal, faded cologne, and petrichor. He always did smell a little like the ground after rain.

At the scent, Byleth’s chest seizes so painfully that his eyes fill with tears. He can feel Sothis glide after him, around to Jeralt’s back. She presses the ghost of an embrace around him, encircling him in a familial hold. Even if he can only see half of it.

“Huh,” Jeralt manages, as Byleth hugs tightly.

“Dad,” Byleth whimpers, his voice uncharacteristically rough, burying his face into Jeralt’s shoulder.

Jeralt is frozen for a moment longer, disbelieving the situation before he awkwardly, but earnestly, rubs a hand up and down Byleth’s back. The tension ebbs from both of them as Jeralt tucks his head down. His breath ruffles the hair on the back of Byleth’s neck.

“It’s alright,” he repeats, softly. His voice wavers, thick with emotion. “It’s alright.”

Byleth pulls back, sniffling. Jeralt’s look of shock is nearly comical; he blinks, lips parting, doing a double take.

“Hey-“

“I love you,” Byleth interrupts, his tone desperate. The words come out fast, unabated; “You’re the best dad I could have asked for and I’m sorry that I’ve made being a father so difficult for you.”

Jeralt’s dazed look continues, but his brow furrows in a tell-tale way, and he shakes his head.

Byleth’s chest continues to seize. He brings his forearm to his eyes.

“I don’t know what just happened,” Jeralt says, after a thoughtful pause, “But don’t you dare say you’ve made my life difficult.”

He brings a calloused thumb up to Byleth’s face, pulling his arm away and stroking said thumb across his cheek.

“I can’t believe this,” he murmurs, “You’re crying. You know, I- Never mind.”

His eyes soften.

“I think that’s the most words I’ve ever heard you say in a row,” he jokes, then warmly, “I love you too. You’re not difficult, kid. You’ve always been you. And I love that.”

Byleth’s lip wobbles fiercely, more tears spilling out from his lashes, dripping down his face in hard tracks.

Jeralt lets out a sigh, smiling crookedly.

“We have to go soon,” he says, “But I do want to know what brought this on. And don’t think I can’t see-“

He looks Byleth up and down, raising both eyebrows at Byleth not-so-subtle change in appearance.

“I suppose a new hair colour would be noticeable,” Sothis laments, floating over to him and curling a strand around her fingers.

“Not to mention the change in eye colour,” Byleth replies internally, “Plus five years advance in age.”

Byleth clears his throat. There’s no way to explain it, not in their limited time.

“Growth spurt?” he offers, scratching the back of his neck.

“Uh-huh,” Jeralt says, clearly not convinced. “Well. I’ll put it out of my mind for now. You should too. There’s no time for idle thoughts on the battlefield.”

“Letting your mind wander is a sure way to get yourself killed,” Sothis mimics, as Jeralt says it, “This is exactly what he said before, is it not?”

“Wait,” Byleth says; Jeralt frowns, and Sothis tilts her head to look at him curiously; “We’re not going to the Kingdom.”

“Oh?” Jeralt answers, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why’s that?”

Byleth closes his eyes, inhales, exhales.

“The door is about to open.”

Byleth reaches out to take Jeralt’s arm and lead him forward, just a few inches.

Jeralt looks at him. Byleth looks back.

The door swings open with wild abandon.

“Jeralt! Sir! Sorry to-“

The mercenary that came to fetch them stops dead. It’s the second look of comical surprise that Byleth has seen today. Fish-eyed, lips parting, spine visibly straightening. He wishes he had time to enjoy it.

“Kid? Woah, what happened to you?”

“What is it Hamish?” Jeralt asks, his voice sharp.

“Oh,” Hamish says, lamely, “Right! There’re some kids asking for our help. Bandits outside the village, they said. Said I’d come get the captain. So, I am.”

“Exactly like last time,” Sothis notes, “Only this time, we know that Edelgard sent the bandits whilst disguised. If we do not intervene, then it is possible that one, two, or all three are overwhelmed and killed…”

She frowns, looking stricken.

“So young,” she murmurs. An expression crosses her face, one that is reflected in Byleth’s chest. Anger and sorrow. A protective rage that runs just below the surface. He is forced to swallow it lest it consume him.

She’s right, though. They are young. Right now, they’re barely adults, with the weight of the world on their shoulders. All those students, his students, deserve someone who will take care of them.

“Maybe we can get off to a better start this time,” Byleth muses internally. Sothis watches him before she nods, her eyes betraying her own determination.

Bracing himself, Byleth clears his throat.

“May I?” he asks, turning to Jeralt. Jeralt looks at him for a moment.

For most, both Jeralt and Byleth are unreadable, their expressions only showing in tiny details. But Byleth knows that Jeralt is considering his request, and the strange circumstances (vis a vis his appearance and outburst), and if he will relinquish control to his son or not.

Hamish looks between them, his brow furrowed in confusion, concern, and incredulity.

Especially considering that Byleth hasn’t asked anything like this before- he’s never wanted to lead.

Jeralt decides-

He shrugs.

Sothis puffs up triumphantly.

“Alright,” Jeralt says, neutrally, “I’m trusting you.”

“Thank you,” Byleth says, with a bow that seems to surprise Jeralt and Hamish even more than his taller stature and mint-green hair.

Byleth leads the three of them down the stairs and out the inn. Sothis floats along, just above Byleth.

“What do you plan to do, oh professor?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” Byleth thinks back, “I’m just winging it.”

Sothis pauses and then grabs his hair and pulls. It can’t do anything, not in the physical world, but it hurts in his mind.

“Are you serious!” she shrieks, “Think for a moment! We cannot barge in without a plan!”

“That’s what we did last time,” Byleth replies, a little petulantly, “And it worked out fine.”

“No, it did not, you thoughtless oaf! You died! I had to turn back the hands of time for you!”

“Oh yeah,” Byleth thinks, with a pause. “Well, anyway. I know what we’re going to do.”

Byleth nods to the other mercenaries as they get to the ground floor, all of them sleepy but quickly gathering their equipment, ready for a fight.

“Protect the little ones,” Byleth states internally, convinced in this if nothing else, “You read my thoughts all those years ago. I have to protect them.”

He pauses at the front door, hand outstretched to pull it open. All eyes are on him. The mercenary band that raised him and his father. And past that, he knows, the three lords he cares for are waiting for him.

“Even Edelgard?” Sothis asks, her voice betraying, for once, nothing of her feelings on the matter.

Byleth finds he cannot answer. He opens the door, and steps out.

The minute he’s outside, a mist of rain hits his exposed skin and sinks in like a shroud.

He doesn’t mind it. The sound of raindrops hitting windows and ceilings is relaxing, and the feeling of it is refreshing.

“Ugh,” Jeralt grunts, trailing off with a curse about said rain.

“Your feeling is not shared,” Sothis notes, with some amusement- and some melancholy. Neither of them voices the thought- the rain that was tears. Byleth finds he’d rather think about anything else. Even the enormity and insanity of this situation.

Like the fact that this really is the past.

“Does this mean that the future- present- is gone?” Byleth asks internally, trudging through the quickly softening mud to where he knows the three lords await. Hamish is alongside him, watching him with a discerning eye, because he didn’t even ask which way to go. Jeralt is watching too. Probably for the same reason.

“I do not know,” Sothis answers. “I wish I did.”

“I will act as if it is,” Byleth thinks in response, “Better safe than sorry.”

Before he even has time to prepare himself, they’re where he was six years ago, in another life. The three leaders of Fódlun, run ragged, forced to ask strangers for help. He wonders, idly, if such an act laid them low.

(He doesn’t think so. He thinks it may have been their first taste of the life of peasants, though certainly not their last.)

They’re so much younger, and so much softer. He’d almost forgotten what their academy uniforms look like, so clean- and not made for battle. Here is Claude, looking up at him with that critical eye; but with a baby-face that fills him with affection. Edelgard without the wicked horns of the hegemon; still, that ribbon in her hair, a contradiction of a girl and violent revolutionary. She’s watching him with surprise (something he could not read last time), clearly not expecting them to have run this far, or escape the bandits she sent.

Dimitri startles him the most. He steps ahead of the other two, ready to represent them- or take the blame for them. Both eyes, wide and bright. His hair cut in sharp blocks, like he hasn’t found the time to care for how he looks.

Byleth thinks of him in the future. The rightful king. His heart squeezes like it’s trapped in a vice. More reality crashes down on top of him. The things he never said, and now, can never even try to.

The ring in his pocket feels like a millstone around his neck.

He forces himself out of his own mind and listens.

“Pardon the intrusion,” Dimitri says, bowing his head respectfully. “We wouldn’t bother you were the situation not dire.”

Byleth inhales. Here goes nothing. Start off on a better foot.

In a way, it feels like cheating. He knows them, in varying degrees, more than they know him.

He knows that Edelgard loves to play board games, that she drinks citrus tea and that she hates the dark. He knows that if he offers her help outright, she will push back thrice as hard. He knows she likes cats, and the opera. 

He knows that Claude loves the rarest books, that he is always looking for a new way of doing, a new way of thinking. He knows that he loves throwing parties, and that his musical ear is non-existent. That the better kept a secret, the more dogged his pursuit becomes.

And Dimitri. He knows that Dimitri loves bad jokes because they’re bad, that he can astutely assess and justify other’s emotions whilst ignoring and damning his own. He knows that he’s surprising good with children, even if he doesn’t like them that much, that he is spartan with his belongings and grows weary in crowds. He likes repetitive tasks, like weapon maintenance, that he cannot cook not only because he breaks anything but the best metals, not only because he can’t taste anything, but because he was never taught and doesn’t want to ask for lessons because it would be a bother.

He knows that Dimitri likes heights, rare swords, the smell of paper. He likes horses, cloudy weather. He’s a surprisingly good dancer. He apologies too much. He sleeps curled up in a ball. He puts more weight into his lance thrusts than most people because if he doesn’t then they’ll splinter. Dimitri double knots his boots. He always stirs drinks clockwise. He opens doors for other people, he prays for every fallen man and woman. He’s ticklish in the dip of his lower back. There’s a scar on his leg where a dog bit him. He’s patient. He’s kind. He’s a compassionate man who makes a wonderful king one day.

“I know it hurts,” Sothis murmurs in his ear.

It does. It really hurts.

“The pain is a motivator,” Byleth thinks back, with steel in his heart.

He holds up one hand, stopping Dimitri’s follow up explanation.

“It’s no intrusion,” he says, before folding his hands behind his back and standing up straighter. He hopes he radiate ‘professor’ energy, even before he officially is. He hopes to be the reassurance the young lords need. “Bandits are chasing you?”

“That’s right,” Edelgard says. Byleth lets none of his feelings show- that’s easy, at least. Mostly because he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling, other than conflicted. “They attacked us when were at rest in our camp.”

“Mm,” Byleth replies, “We’ll help you.”

“Huh,” Claude chirps, “Really? That easily?”

“Claude,” Dimitri and Edelgard both hiss- shooting him twin glares. He holds his hands up in surrender, with a chuckle.

Byleth nods curtly.

“They’ll put Remire in danger. You asked for help. We’ll provide it,” he says. Hamish nods in agreement. Jeralt simply regards the lords, clearly trying to assess their characters.

“Of course,” Dimitri says, also surprised but in a more positive light than his pessimistic counterpart. His voice is bright- “Thank you very much. We are in your debt.”

Byleth tilts his head. Dimitri does not shrink from his gaze, though he can see that subtle shift as their eyes lock.

_“I thought you as someone who felt no strong feelings about killing your enemies…”_

_He shakes his head._

_“After speaking with you and getting to know you better, I can see you’re not like that. Now I know, with all my heart, that I can trust you. Thank you for that.”_

He can see it now. How easily the Ashen Demon strikes men down. He doesn’t blame Dimitri, or anyone really, for thinking such a thing.

But not this time.

“You won’t be,” Byleth replies, “Come with me to fend off these bandits.”

They don’t protest- he knew they wouldn’t.

“Father?”

He turns his head to Jeralt, who raises an eyebrow.

“Mm?” he offers, cracking his neck and pulling his sword free of its sheath.

“Please take the north-west.”

“Sure kiddo,” Jeralt replies neutrally, “Hope you nobles know how to wield a sword. Though-“

He narrows his eyes. All three lords shrink, just a little, from his prying eyes.

“Never mind,” Jeralt mutters, traipsing off to the west.

  
“Hamish?” Byleth asks.

“Yessir!” Hamish barks. Byleth shoots him an exasperated look before continuing.

“Flank south-east, take Lyra to watch the back.”

“You got it,” Hamish chirps, jogging away.

Left alone with the three lords, Byleth rolls his shoulders, shaking off the last of his nausea.

“Follow me and I’ll protect you,” he says, stepping past the three lords and into the not-particularly-unknown.

[A SKIRMISH AT DAWN. ATTEMPT 2.0]

Remire’s perimetre is nothing more than a bundle of wood in the shape of a watchtower, and half of it is on fire.

“Damn,” Claude mutters, “They really want our gold. And lives.”

It’s hard not to see the future destruction in the crackling of the fire. He does his best to put it out of his mind- one step at a time. Best foot forward. No time for idle thoughts.

Breathe.

He puts a hand just in front of Dimitri, anticipating his step forward.

“Oh, sorry,” Dimitri murmurs, looking at Byleth with those surprised baby blues.

Byleth nods back, deep in thought.

In the past, there was no time (and no incentive) to deliver non-fatal injuries. This time, he is more experienced, both in the standard sense, and in the sense that he knows how this will play out.

This time, he understands the value of human life. He won’t lie and say he doesn’t find thrill in killing- he does- or that he is entirely a pacifist- he isn’t. But if he can convince these paid men to value their lives over their coin, then he has to try.

“And,” Sothis sing-songs, “Should things go terribly wrong, we can turn back the hands of time.”

Byleth leads Claude to the thicket just ahead of the perimeter, and puts Edelgard in the cover of the woods, just shy of forward watchtower. The purely logical part of his mind, the strategist, tells him to stay with Edelgard. Watch her behaviour closely. She hired these thugs. Let her shed light on it.

But he has emotions, even if they’re hard for others to read.

“With me,” Byleth instructs Dimitri, “I’ll draw them in.”

It is a useful move. Dimitri can take the most punishment, and he’s agile enough to dodge attacks; he has long reach with his lance, and he can outmanoeuvre the axes most bandits use.

But he also just wants to keep Dimitri closest. Safest.

“Is that wise? What if you get hurt?” Dimitri asks.

Byleth wrestles down years of adoration, growth, and yearning.

“I trust you’ll watch my back,” he answers, after a moment. Even if he does struggle to say it.

Dimitri is looking at him. Byleth finds he can’t meet his eyes.

“I am honoured to have your trust, stranger.”

_Stranger_. His gut twists like a gordian knot.

“Stay here.”

Dimitri doesn’t ask why, though he clearly wants to. He does as he’s told, staying hidden in the shadow of the forward watchtower.

Byleth eyes the tower. It doesn’t look too stable. Part of it is still on fire. But, it’ll do.

He takes a running start- catches the faint sound of Dimitri’s gasp- and clamours up the tower. He gets to the top: a view of the field.

He spots eight bandits and one captain, the captain leading a battalion. They won’t be charmed into leaving.

“Nor are you the man for that job,” Sothis snickers, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the fire’s glare.

It’ll have to be intimidation.

Byleth inhales, brings his fingers to his lips, and whistles as loudly as possible. The sound rings out. Their captain notices, and absolutely bellows his response:

“Who the hell are you?”

Byleth curls his hand around the wooden frame of the tower. He raises his voice without shouting, letting it echo out across the forest.

“I am the Ashen Demon. Drop your weapons and run away.”

His warning is met with laughter and jeers. Unperturbed, he continues.

“Leave and you will not be pursued.”

Some of the bandits shift uneasily, but no one flees the field. It was probably too much to ask for, he muses, jumping down from the watchtower.

He’s walking back to Dimitri when someone breaks through the trees at a breakneck pace. One of the bandits going right for the lord’s hiding places.

Quick as a flash Byleth unsheathes his sword and darts in front of them, parrying the blow with ease.

“Fine. Allow me to demonstrate why you should pick on someone your own size.”

His own sword slides up to lock hilts against the bandit’s. He holds it with one hand, and jabs his other hand out, fingers straightened, to the bandit’s nose. Break. The bandit yelps, Byleth follows it up by sweeping his leg to topple his foe.

It’s laughably easy. A year of war makes everything else seem like child’s play he supposes, darkly.

The bandit stares at him with wide eyes, his life flashing before them. Byleth doesn’t deliver the killing blow, but his own eyes flash with not-very-concealed anger.

With a garbled curse, the bandit scrambles to his feet and books it, tearing off in the opposite direction of the fight.

Byleth jogs back to Dimitri, nods, and waits.

His memory is quite terrible, but his awareness has a dagger’s edge from his extra experience, so ultimately it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t remember exactly where each bandit emerges from.

He sees the smallest rustle and he knows that someone is coming. Three bandits approach them, clearly hoping to flank and encircle one of the lords, but he sees them coming.

“Dimitri,” Byleth calls out, “Right side.”

Dimitri dashes forward just as the three bandits attempt their flank. There is a squawk of surprise as Dimitri swings his lance. It’s with a sense of deja vu that he watches Dimitri’s movements- he’s not moving his lance like an extension of his arm yet. His movements are still a little wooden, even if his form is perfect.

His swings, even if they aren’t backed up with much battlefield experience, are potent enough to keep the bandits at bay. When Byleth advances to back him up, one of the bandits splits off, leaving the other two to encircle Dimitri.

“The little prince will be fine,” Sothis says, rolling her eyes as Byleth reluctantly unsheathes his sword, eyes hard as he locks with his opponent. “Focus, foolish one.”

“Rude,” he thinks back, pouncing forward with vicious speed to disarm his opponent. The clang of steel, and the axe goes flying. The bandit, sadly, does not flee. He chases after his weapon, putting his back to Byleth.

“And I’m the foolish one?” Byleth thinks, sourly. He stretches out a hand to throw a thunder spell after him, careful not to hit the man dead on, and not to set the rest of the forest on fire. The boom that follows its sparking arc is enough to force the bandit to flee the field.

He swings his sword back up to rest along his padded forearm, ready to flip it forward for a quick draw, and turns on one foot to glance at Dimitri.

Of course, he’s not particularly troubled. One of the bandits is heavily injured, and the other is nervously disengaging- shouting a curse, grabbing the other, and helping him limp away.

“Good work,” Byleth says; Dimitri turns to look at him and nods. There’s turmoil in his eyes, but a faint blush on his cheeks.

An arrow whistles overhead. Byleth immediately follows its path- four more bandits left, and their leader- to find Edelgard cutting down another.

“Because they could lead back to her,” Sothis notes, sourly.

He’s not one to take the moral high ground about killing. It isn’t that which bothers him. He killed these people last time and never thought of them again; it’s the precision of Edelgard’s plan, and how highly adaptive she is.

Three left.

A rustle in the underbrush.

“Claude,” Byleth calls, “Past the watchtower.”

Byleth looks Edelgard up and down- she’s fine. She nods, and he can feel her assessing him. He feels like a butterfly pinned to a board.

Claude’s bow twangs as he fires, and hits home.

Two.

He nods for Edelgard and Claude to follow, and jogs back to Dimitri.

The clang-clang of weapons smacking each other for intimidation is effective, in a primal way. The leader, his battalion, and the final ‘normal’ bandit.

Byleth gestures forward, left, right. The three lords split up once again, this time setting up their own ambush. Byleth hums, climbing up the closest tree.

“What are you doing?” Sothis asks, exasperated, floating above the branches as Byleth climbs up, as agile as a cat.

“Ambush,” Byleth answers, bracing his feet around the sturdiest branch; one hand behind him, for balance, the other on his sword hilt.

They come into view. The leader is a stout looking man with angular facial hair and a mean, agitated expression. Chains run off his shoulder, and a bloodied strip of fabric sways in the breeze, hanging from a spike.

“Damn,” Kostas snarls, “Why are there mercenaries in this village?”

He looks up and meets a pair of glowing mint eyes, a silhouette crouched above like a, like a-

“Demon?” Sothis muses, her arms floating around Byleth’s shoulders.

Kostas lets out a fierce curse. With that, his battalion aims a hail of throwing axes at Byleth’s position. He doesn’t move, only sinks closer to the branch like liquid shadow in the shape of a man. The axes whizz past, but in the dim pre-morning light, their aim misses him.

Byleth leaps down, sword drawn, joined by Edelgard and Dimitri springing from the underbrush, and several well-placed shots from Claude, who stays back from the chaos.

The surprise assault shatters the battalion in no time. There’s no way to avoid death, not in a close-range melee, so Byleth does not hold back. Fifteen, fourteen. Two die, one flees. Thirteen.

Kostas runs right for Edelgard.

Byleth sees the first time he ever used Divine Pulse, protecting Edelgard’s body with his own in an instinctual movement. He wonders, even now, if that was the first time he ever cared about the fate of a human being other than his own father.

“A poor first choice,” Sothis notes.

This time he doesn’t need to use his own body- he’s faster. It feels strange not having the Sword of the Creator in his hands, with its ability to stretch out and defend; but even with a normal steel sword, he can catch the wild, savage swing.

It does send a spike of pain through his arm. Kostas’ strength is nothing to sneeze at, especially not as desperate as he is.

After all, that blow was deadly in another life.

“Hey!” Claude yells, “Over here!”

An arrow glances off Kostas’ face. It leaves a nasty gash on his cheek and is enough for him to stumble back. Byleth swings his sword, takes inventory.

Twelve, eleven. Three more are fleeing. Another felled.

Seven.

Byleth doesn’t intend to let Kostas flee, but the desperation of the bandits is too pressing to focus on just the one man. He raises his hand to let out another thoron spell, a crack of lightning that sends one of the bandits who was getting too close to Dimitri flying into a tree with a sickening crack.

Six.

Kostas bites out another curse, wiping the blood from his eyes, and breaks into a sprint out of absolutely nowhere- abandoning the few remaining bandits.

“If we take them in, Rhea will likely kill them,” Sothis reminds him, “Do with that as you will.”

“They would have killed the children,” Byleth thinks back, “They _are_ dangerous.”

Five.

Byleth moves with the gracefulness of a dancer, and the deadliness of his demonic nickname. He dispatches the remaining bandits with fluid, cutting precision.

Zero.

He is too preoccupied to see that as Kostas flees, the air shimmers and parts like a veil. Before he can utter a sound, he is snatched from the field, and disappears without a trace.

“That’s it,” Sothis says, her voice triumphant. He can feel all three lords watching him. He looks up at them- no one seems hurt. Good.

In the distance, he can hear someone’s voice, echoing, and he knows that it’s Alois. Soon he’ll be upon them. Soon the lords will ask him to come with them.

Standing in a circle of corpses, he feels oddly nostalgic.


	3. IN CHERISHED HALLS

“You’re hurt,” Edelgard says.

It’s said like a statement of fact- which it is- but Byleth doesn’t miss the infliction of worry in her voice.

“It’s nothing,” he replies, nonplussed.

It seems a few of the axes didn’t miss when he was readying their ambush; there’s a couple of shallow grazes, but they’re minor annoyances at worse. One must have caught on his elbow, and the jarring it took from blocking the bandit leader’s strike has made the skin open. It’s a little bloody, trickling down the inside of his forearm, but again- a minor annoyance.

He’s survived far worse.

Sothis scoffs, floating over Byleth with her hair in a halo, her eyes staring holes in Edelgard.

“It is far too late for her to worry about you,” she says darkly, looking like she may wring the neck of the young princess.

Byleth doesn’t reply, internally or externally.

Claude emerges from the trees, a twig stuck in his hair, waving with the smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He is quickly joined by Dimitri. As they come to a stop, Byleth notices Dimitri looks stricken.

“Oh goodness,” he says, “I’m so sorry!”

“Huh?” Byleth and Sothis say at the same time.

“You got hurt protecting us,” Dimitri elaborates, with that compassionately-genuine-worry in his eyes, inching closer, a hand outstretched to help- though he cannot heal the wound himself, what with his lack of white magic.

Byleth’s brow furrows. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the concern, but-

“It’s nothing,” he repeats.

He reaches around for his cloak, shifting it around in his hands before tearing a strip off. Claude lets out a wordless sound of surprise (and protest); Byleth ignores it, patting his belt- dagger, no, rope, no, fresh water, yes- and pouring a measure of water over the wound until it runs mostly clear.

“Please,” Dimitri says, looking like not doing something is physically paining him, “Allow me to help.”

His plea is ridiculous.

“The little prince is such a naïve soul,” Sothis says, her tone scolding. She’s not fooling Byleth, though; they share a mind, and he knows she’s as fond of Dimitri as he is.

It would be hard not to be.

Anyway, it shouldn’t matter if he helps or not- he shouldn’t even be offering. They’re strangers.

Edelgard and Claude are both too wary of him- rightly so. He’s a stranger, a mercenary with a reputation for being heartless, and even if he did just help them, they don’t know what kind of person he is. They act with their heads, but Dimitri acts with his heart.

And it makes Byleth’s own hurt.

He relents and nods. Grateful, Dimitri steps forward, taking the strip of cloth from Byleth’s hands. His touch is feather light-

“He is afraid he will break your bones,” Sothis says, with an amused little giggle- “Little does he know, we are made of stronger bones than most.”

“Morbid,” Byleth muses in response.

-as he raises Byleth’s arm up and wraps the makeshift bandage around the sickle shaped cut.

“There,” Dimitri says, with wary triumph.

“There indeed,” Claude echoes, mischievously. Byleth can hear the roguish smile in his voice. Dimitri shoots him a look, a little flustered.

“Are you not grateful for our rescue?” Dimitri asks, not unkindly.

“Oh, I am,” Claude replies, winking at Byleth, “The gods of fortune are smiling upon us today. Who knew that not only would we be saved; it would be by such a talented individual?”

His smile widens-

“And dare I say, handsome?”

Byleth meets his eyes neutrally. He knows that Claude is looking for a chink in his armour; he wants a reaction.

You’ll have to do better than that, he thinks back warmly.

“You hear that a lot huh,” Claude murmurs, dejected when he doesn’t get the reaction he was hoping for.

“That being-“ Edelgard winces, forging on, “-What it may, we are grateful for your intervention. May I ask your name?”

“No,” Sothis answers petulantly, rounding on her once again.

He doesn’t answer, but not because of Sothis’ refusal. He can feel his father approaching, even if he can’t hear it. Having spent his whole life with Jeralt means he has a sixth sense for these things.

“Eisner,” Jeralt answers. All three lords jump, clearly not having heard his approach. He is quiet, for a large man.

“My name is Byleth,” he clarifies, “Byleth Eisner. This is my father, Jeralt Eisner.”

“Tch,” Jeralt sighs, “I had hoped you wouldn’t ask. Too much baggage.”

“Jeralt Eisner- the Blade Breaker?” Edelgard ventures, “Well then. That does explain your son’s capabilities.”

Jeralt shakes his head.

“His capabilities have nothing to do with mine,” he replies, “That’s all him.”

He ruffles Byleth’s hair. Byleth doesn’t move away, but does look down, struggling to swallow his emotions.

“Your highnesses!”

Alois’ voice carries like a foghorn. Jeralt eyes widen in a rare look of genuine shock, and then as it settles, he visibly winces.

“Just my luck,” he mutters, “Out of all the knights, it had to be him.”

Alois’ armour jangles in an aesthetically pleasing if almost menacing way. Of course, there is nothing menacing about Alois himself. He’s sunshine personified.

“Thank the goddess you’re unharmed!” he booms, wrapping his arms around the three lords.

It’s jarring. Byleth sets eyes on Alois and he sees him sat down at Jeralt’s grave.

His memory of that evening and the next day are foggy at best, but what he does remember is that Alois stayed with him, and he had wept, silently. But where Byleth was allowed to grieve; because Dimitri and Seteth took over his duties; Alois went back to work. Alois swallowed his grief and forged on.

Byleth had only ever seen him smile before that, and nothing since has matched the strength of his grief on that terrible day. It was the worst day of Byleth’s life, and after, he felt like Alois was a kindred spirit in his sorrow. He always made time to see him when he returned from missions, and Alois’ made the same time, checking on him as those final academy days darkened with the shadow of war.

But here he is with Jeralt, once again.

“We had help,” Claude says brightly, as Alois releases the three.

Alois locks eyes with Jeralt. Byleth watches the gears in his head turn.

Jeralt looks at him, readying himself with resignation.

His shout of realisation makes Byleth wince.

“Captain Jeralt!? Is that you?!”

Byleth steps out of the way to allow Alois to grab Jeralt and crush him in a bear hug. Such an action shocks Jeralt, who shoots him a surprised and betrayed look.

You take him for granted, Byleth thinks back.

“Or he doesn’t realise how deeply he is loved,” Sothis adds.

Byleth silently agrees.

“You haven’t aged a day! Not like me,” Alois says, releasing Jeralt, “I knew you survived. I always did! And here we are-“

He swings around to Byleth and gives him the beamiest of smiles. Byleth doesn’t smile back- he knows he’s not good at smiling on command, it’s been called ‘gross’ and ‘very ill-at-ease’- but he does incline his head to acknowledge the knight, nonetheless.

“Who is this?”

“I’m his son,” Byleth answers, before Jeralt can.

Alois’ eyebrows shoot up into the stratosphere, and then come down as he gives another hearty beam.

“How wonderful!” he says, “And you looked after our heads of house! The Knights of Seiros are in your debt!”

“Yes,” Jeralt says, with a cough. He’s looking at Byleth out of the corner of his eye. “So… you want us to come back with you, I take it?”

“Of course!” Alois says, “You must be rewarded for your knightly deeds!”

Jeralt purses his lips.

Alois waits.

Jeralt shrugs.

“Alright,” he says.

Alois cheers.

Less resistance than last time, Byleth thinks, shocked, is it because of my actions?

“That is most likely,” Sothis agrees.

Jeralt shifts his weight, crossing his arms over his chest.

“We need to pay the innkeeper, collect our things,” he says.

“We will help you!” Alois booms.

“Of course you will,” Jeralt mutters, under his breath. “Right, come on.”

“You won’t run off again!” Alois says cheerfully, calling Jeralt’s bluff. Jeralt heaves another sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

Byleth follows in his footsteps as he turns around and waves the slowly dissipating drizzle away.

“So,” Claude drawls; Byleth tilts his head to the side to meet his eyes; “You’re coming with us to the monastery? Better explain a bit about ourselves, shouldn’t we?”

His eyes sparkle. Even now, Byleth can see the promise in his eyes, that drive, his dogged tenacity, and his charisma. He will do great things.

Perhaps he could do greater were there no war.

“We’re students at the Officer’s Academy,” Claude says, “We were in the middle of a training exercise just outside the grounds when we were attacked- I made a strategic retreat but these two followed me.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Honestly.”

Edelgard looks at him incredulously before she rolls her own eyes, trying to hide her reaction.

“You ran away,” she corrects.

Claude tuts, waggling a finger.

“Strategic. Retreat,” he emphasises.

“I see,” Dimitri says, “I thought you were acting as a decoy.”

Byleth recognises this conversation from last time and tunes it out, tugging on Jeralt’s sleeve instead.

“Mm?” Jeralt turns to look at him as he pushes the door to the inn, “Oh, right. Yeah, go get your things. We’re going in ten.”

It’s disorientating, being around the younger, louder versions of the three lords. He missed their younger selves, to be sure, but it’s still incredibly disorientating.

He slinks away from the incoming crowd of his father’s mercenaries, away from Alois’ booming voice, and away from the prying questions of three people that he cares about more than they realise.

It’s only when he gets to his room that he realises he has been followed.

“Pardon me,” Dimitri says. “I can’t help but… that is to…”

Byleth looks at him neutrally as he trails off.

“I must speak with you,” he says, after a moment, “Your skill in battle was captivating- but no, that’s not why I must…”

Byleth continues to stare as Dimitri blushes, embarrassed.

“Can I help you pack?” he asks, averting his eyes.

Byleth nods, unlocking the door. He crosses the room to pull open the curtains. Dimitri stands in the middle, a little at a loss.

Byleth takes pity on him and points to cuirass currently resting on a chair.

“I don’t have much,” Byleth admits. He never did- even after moving to Garreg Mach, he never shook the habit of keeping a small inventory; enough to carry without it being a pain, enough to move swiftly.

He has his weapons. His armour. Things to maintain them. And that’s really it.

Dimitri is watching him.

“Forgive my deception,” he says.

Oh no, Byleth thinks.

“But- you knew my name.”

_Oh no_ , Byleth thinks, staring back at Dimitri, at a total loss.

How can he explain that?

A breeze rustles through the room, as mites of dust catch in the rising sunlight.

“I overheard it,” Byleth says.

Dimitri frowns.

If only he wasn’t such a good read, Byleth laments.

“Did you?” he asks.

“No,” Byleth says. He pauses. How can he explain? The truth?

_I know you. I know you as well as your closest friends because I was (am) your second in command, I’ve shared your journey for years, your struggles and triumphs. I’ve known you in all things. I would never forget your name, even if I slept for a thousand years._

“Sometimes I know things,” he says, with a mild shrug. “Your name.”

Dimitri watches him as he packs his meagre possessions.

To be frank, he could leave most of this behind; he knows that Garreg Mach has better quality of both weapons and armour. Still, he needs to do something with his hands, and actually having his old possessions back is nice in its own way.

He didn’t realise he was susceptible to nostalgia.

“Really?” Dimitri muses. Byleth isn’t sure if it’s a real question.

“It’s a gift from the goddess,” Byleth says, softly. Sothis smirks at that, floating from Byleth’s side to Dimitri’s.

“She works in mysterious ways,” Dimitri responds, “Do you know anything else?”

Ah.

Byleth inhales.

For a moment, he once again considers telling the truth.

“Are you out of your feeble mortal mind?” Sothis hisses, appearing next to Dimitri and glaring at Byleth-

“Oh, yes, I know that the little princess gave those bandits coin to snuff out your life and the life of the heir, that she will manipulate that foolish western branch of the church until that man- what was it, Lonato- rebels and dies for nothing; she will poison this very village, kill our father, work with those who killed yours, and will not stop until she’s sated!”

Sothis huffs and puffs, red in the face.

Byleth closes his eyes.

“You…”

He can feel both Sothis’ and Dimitri’s eyes on him.

“You…”

He taps a finger to his chin.

Dimitri watches him, Sothis watches him.

Byleth shrugs.

“Nope,” he says, neutrally.

When Dimitri lets out a soft, genuine laugh, the tension in the room dissolves. He smiles back at Byleth.

“I see,” he says, “Gifted or not, I am grateful for you and your father’s assistance.”

Everything is already packed. Byleth lets out a sigh, sliding the bag over his shoulder and pulling a fur-collared coat on. He walks towards Dimitri, keys in hand, ready to hand them back to the innkeeper and get moving to Garreg Mach- but Dimitri blocks his path.

He looks up at the Blaiddyd prince. Even now, Dimitri is taller than him. A couple of inches, at most, but taller nonetheless.

“Perhaps it is remiss for me to solicit you here like this,” Dimitri admits, meeting Byleth’s eyes, “But- perhaps I could convince you to come back to the Kingdom with me?”

He clears his throat, standing up taller.

“I realise that you are coming with us to the monastery now but once you have been rewarded you would have the option,” he elaborates, “I believe I could learn a great deal from you. And not just me- the Kingdom is in need of men like you.”

Realising he’s blocking Byleth’s path, he ducks out of the way, allowing him to open the door and shoo him out. Byleth locks the door behind them.

“I’d like that,” Byleth says, turning back to Dimitri.

He receives a smile in return- and then a visible double take as Dimitri realises what he just said.

“Really?” Dimitri exclaims, “You’re far too kind- I am terrible at selling it.”

Byleth shakes his head. Dimitri follows behind him as he walks back down the hall, down the stairs, listening for how it has gotten quieter. The mercenaries must have already left the inn with his father.

“The Kingdom,” Byleth says, “I like it there.”

“You’ve been before?” Dimitri asks; he can hear the smile in it.

Byleth nods.

“I like the snow,” Byleth says.

He walks up to the innkeeper and hands back the keys. After a moment of digging through his satchel, he procures a handful of gold coins.

“Oh, mister Eisner there’s no need for that,” the innkeeper says quickly- Christine, he thinks- “Your father already paid us for the rooms. And you drove off those bandits. No, no, keep it.”

Byleth hesitates, pursing his lips, and then shakes his head, putting the coins down on the counter.

They engage in a staring contest. He can feel Dimitri watching the exchange curiously.

“Please,” Byleth says, after a moment.

Christine the innkeeper looks at him and smiles, taking the coin.

“Come back soon then,” she says, then to Dimitri, “You too!”

Dimitri bows. Byleth waves, hoisting his bag further up his shoulder and pushing the front door open.

The rain has finally eased.

The eclectic band regroups at the edge of Remire. Jeralt already looks exhausted from listening to Alois at full volume. Their mercenary brothers and sisters in arms look both confused and excited- with a hint of caution. Edelgard and Claude both look at Byleth as he approaches.

“You did follow him,” Edelgard notes, her eyes on Dimitri.

“Smart move,” Claude adds, “Did you proposition our new friend already?”

“I did not,” Dimitri says indignantly.

“Yes, you did,” Sothis mutters, shaking her head.

It’s clear that neither Edelgard nor Claude believe him, but they don’t comment further.

“Garreg Mach Monastery,” Jeralt murmurs, as Byleth comes up to him, “I suppose it was inevitable.”

Last time, he’d known nothing of Garreg Mach, nothing of his father’s past. But now he knows- the Blade Breaker, his mother Sitri, and that Jeralt likely carries the Crest of Flames. That this is where he was born, and where Jeralt ran from, terrified of what Rhea had done.

He understands. He’s even grateful. But with knowledge that he shouldn’t have yet, thinking of Rhea just fills him with a poignant sense of loss.

Byleth slips his hand into Jeralt’s and squeezes before letting go. Jeralt’s eyes snap to him with a warm curiosity. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

Remire is near the edge of the Adrestian Empire, and none too far from Garreg Mach. The path cuts through Hemralt Forest, well worn by decades of travellers and pilgrims making their way towards the heart of Fódlun. Beech trees flank the path, gargantuan and thriving, casting the fresh morning light in dappled spots across the party as they walk.

The group splits rather quickly. Once the Knights of Seiros have been assured that the three lords are uninjured, that the mercenaries can be trusted, and that Jeralt is the Blade Breaker- no really- they split off to the front. Jeralt stands a head taller than the rest, fielding questions and slowly losing his wary tension, until Byleth can hear him ask (in hushed tones, he has a reputation to uphold) Alois about his children.

Alois procures several drawings from thin air.

That leaves Byleth in the back with Edelgard, Claude, and Dimitri. Edelgard walks to his left, her eyes ahead. He can guess at the gears in her mind turning. She’s working out her next move.

For a second, he’s swept by a flash of violence. He sees himself crush Edelgard’s skull here and now. He knows it wouldn’t stop anything- she was the head, the driving force, yes, but she was being used by Those Who Slither in the Dark to their own ends- whatever those were. He died before he could find out.

“You didn’t die,” Sothis comments, dryly.

Claude flanks his right. He’s been doing his best to endear himself- little does he know that he already has, several times over.

Byleth trusts Claude- he will remember the realisation that Claude had trusted them so deeply that he had allowed an army to overtake Derdriu, because he knew that Dimtri and Byleth would come for him. Byleth knows he would trust Claude to save him too, should it ever come to pass.

“You are very hard to read, you know that?”

Claude’s smile still doesn’t reach his eyes. Byleth looks back at him neutrally.

“You just rescued three nobles in mortal peril,” Claude says, “You defeated a whole bunch of bandits without breaking a sweat, you found out that your father is one of the strongest knights to ever live, and you’ve been invited to one of the most important places on the map!”

He’s still smiling. Still watching.

“And I’m not smiling,” Byleth finishes, neutrally.

Claude licks his lips and shrugs.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding very sorry, “I don’t mean to be rude. I just find you fascinating.”

“Claude,” Dimitri says, a warning in his voice, “Have you no restraint?”

Claude turns his smile to Dimitri.

“Nope,” he says, brightly, “And at my guess, neither do you!”

Satisfied that Dimitri and Claude’s bickering won’t draw blood (it never has), Byleth looks ahead once again. He can see the boys out of the corner of his eye, Dimitri’s flustered movements, Claude swinging around to poke at his chest, the accusations, denial, the works.

“You haven’t asked about your payment,” Edelgard says.

Byleth looks ahead, not wanting to meet her eyes. He’s not sure what he’d see there. Or if he wants to know.

“It’s unusual,” Edelgard continues, “Most mercenaries want payment immediately after their service; or at the very least, they would ask how much they will be compensated.”

She laughs. It’s tiny, barely more than a breath, but its enough to shock Byleth into looking- even she seems surprised by it, raising a hand to her mouth and averting her eyes.

She’s still just a traumatised child, Byleth thinks, like Dimitri.

“But the little prince doesn’t start a war that consumes a continent,” Sothis counters.

“You aren’t like most mercenaries, are you?” Edelgard says, mostly to herself.

Byleth shrugs mildly.

Their conversation has again caught the boys' attention-

“Most mercenaries want payment before you even tell them anything,” Claude says observationally, “You haven’t hired many mercenaries, eh princess?”

Edelgard flushes, shooting Claude a look. Her lip twitches, like it wants to curl up. It’s such a small detail, but it sends a pang of something unidentifiable through Byleth. He wonders, for a moment, if it’s fear.

“And you have?” she responds, as Byleth looks past Claude at Dimitri. They share a look which sends another vicious pang through his heart. It’s the look that Byleth has shared with him many times; when Sylvain and Felix argued, when Mercedes and Annette had their falling out, when someone was hiding from Ingrid. That conspiratorial look, that ‘I know’, that shared amusement of peacekeepers ready to jump in.

“Nope,” Claude replies, with a smile that is a little more genuine than his previous ones, “I don’t even know what a mercenary is.”

Byleth wrestles his heart down, breaking eye contact with Dimitri.

“I thought you were exceptionally well read,” Dimitri muses, scratching his chin, “My mistake.”

“Hey now-“

“No, no,” Dimitri says quickly, “I understand.”

Claude pouts sourly, looking at Byleth for support- which he doesn’t get. He does get a slight twitch of the eyebrows. That’s enough to sate some of his curiosity; Byleth sees that flash of his eyes, cataloguing the tiny detail, and knows that tidbit will do for now.

Edelgard regards him again, leaving him no room to breathe.

“Where are you from?” she asks, “You don’t seem to be from Remire.”

This line of questioning is interesting enough that suddenly Byleth has all three sets of eyes on him. Again.

He shrugs.

“We travel.”

There are several places he’s seen and liked, but most of those are not ones he can divulge- he trusts his father to play along, yes, but he doesn’t want to accidentally say something that he shouldn’t know. And it’s not like he can say where he was really born, because- well, he just won’t.

A safe bet would be-

“Derdriu is nice,” he murmurs, his quiet voice cutting through the cloud of chatter.

Claude beams- that one is also genuine, and it sticks out as such.

“It is, isn’t it?” he enthuses, folding his arms behind his head. His gait takes on its own cheerful note. He’s won this contest- whatever it was.

“Have you been to Garreg Mach before?” Dimitri asks.

“No,” Byleth lies.

“It really is Fódlun in a nutshell,” Claude supplies, “The good and the bad.”

He raises a hand to hide his next words.

“If you like the church, you’ll be fine,” he whispers, conspiratorially.

Dimitri watches him cautiously. Edelgard, conspicuously, doesn’t react at all.

Byleth shrugs- he feels like it’s his primary mode of communication, so overwhelmed is he by their quick-fire words- and they continue to talk about the monastery, about their lands, about each other. Harmless barbs fly back and forth as Byleth settles into the background, content just to listen.

There is something ironic about their not-so-subtle jostling for his attention. The irony folds in on itself, for not only will he not be travelling anywhere, he already knows what each territory is like, and what they value.

He feels rather like a mother hen, surrounded by cheeping chicks.

_20th of the Great Tree Moon. Midday._

Garreg Mach is how he remembers it in rose-tinted dreams. It is a truly ancient structure and seeing it before it was partially destroyed in the Imperial Siege is bittersweet to say the least. It takes a genuine effort not to flinch every time he sees Edelgard look around; he’s acting as if she could break brick with her gaze alone. It’s pitiful.

The three lords should split off from them- and they do, but this time Byleth registers their hesitation.

Where they hesitant before? Could he just not tell- or not care?

He’s finding more and more that he doesn’t like the person he used to be, the one the past reminds him of. He feels a sick sense of loathing at himself, at his own perceived arrogance (though he knows it never was that), at his own failings.

The monastery’s steps are so familiar he could sleepwalk through its grounds. Jeralt notices- probably not that he’s eerily familiar with where they’re going (though he wouldn’t put it past his father to read his mind like that), but that he’s looking around, and looking _for_ things there’s no way he should know to look for.

His eyes are drawn to the direction of the graveyard.

For all the gaps in his memory, what he does have a perfect memory of is Rhea looking down on them from the courtyard. When it happens this time, it is much the same. She looks down, in her eternal ethereal beauty, and Jeralt looks back at her impassively; like two immovable objects clashing.

Once he had seen Rhea as little more than a strange religious zealot. He has a kinder view of her now, a more nuanced view. Still, he will do as his father instructed in his original timeline: to stay on his guard.

Would she still carve out his heart if she thought it prudent?

“I would not let her,” Sothis announces, gravely. “So put those thoughts away at once.”

He does.

The audience chamber looks spotless. With a start, Byleth thinks of Cyril, a child once again, wherever he may be. Maybe he can keep the boy out of an all-consuming war this time.

“Once we’ve spoken to Rhea, I want to hear about your… growth spurt,” Jeralt says, looking at Byleth sidelong.

He nods.

“Of course, father,” he replies.

Jeralt’s lips quirk.

Byleth has no time to ponder how he so rarely called Jeralt his father that now it draws such (relative) depth out of him, because another ghost crosses his path.

Sothis groans, a feeling he seconds.

He grew very close to Seteth, both before and during the war. The man is a hard-working, genuinely altruistic soul who clearly struggles with the more problematic actions that Rhea takes; on top of that, he is a fine warrior and a great father.

“Not to mention who he really is,” Sothis notes, then with fondness, “I think he was the smartest of them. Yes, I do believe so.”

He can believe that. This time he’ll have to try to be less antagonistic- though frankly, there’s little he can do considering now he knows why Seteth disliked him so severely in the beginning.

“Thank you for your patience,” Seteth says, “My name is Seteth. I am an advisor to the archbishop.”

Déjà vu makes a quick dance across his brain before he does his best to ignore it.

“Should I just tell them I know everything?” he asks Sothis, internally.

“And how do you believe that would go? Do you think your father would rejoice in knowing that both his wife and son were born to be little more than science experiments?”

He winces internally. Sothis floats closer, a solemn look on her face.

“I am sorry. I did not mean it like that,” she says.

“I know,” he replies.

“You may tell them- I will not stop you- but I do urge you to err on the side of caution. Rhea is not the what we once thought, but that does not mean she is not dangerous. Even Seteth has his loyalties, and sadly, they are to you no longer.”

“My condolences,” Rhea is saying, “I heard of your valiant efforts from Alois. What is your name?”

Inhale.

“My name is Byleth, Lady Rhea,” he replies, with a genuine bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Jeralt’s look of shock isn’t removed quickly enough to hide it from all present. He still feels strange speaking in full sentences; words are so unnatural; but he does need to endear himself to Rhea all over again. Or maybe he’s just desperate to be trusted by those he once saw as family.

“My dear, the pleasure is mine. You have a fine name,” Rhea says. Her eyes see right through him, he thinks, and tries not to remember of the sight of her fresh from captivity, skeletally thin and pale.

“Jeralt,” she continues, and Byleth tunes that out.

There is so much to think about, so much to consider. He is being presented an opportunity, but it is a cruel one indeed. Fate must be laughing at him, forcing him to relive these, the best days of his life, but this time with the knowledge that many of the people smiling and laughing in these halls will die in less than five years’ time. That friends will kill one another, that two countries will crumble, and that even now, Those Who Slither in the Dark are plotting against them.

“Whatever the case, I am with you,” Sothis says, “But do not forget, we are not necessarily safe in our purpose.”

Byleth frowns- at that, but externally as Rhea and Seteth walk away.

“Time is bleeding, professor mine,” Sothis explains, “Or did you forget my words already!?”

“I didn’t forget, I just don’t know what it means,” he protests.

“It is an unknown,” she agrees, “Which is why you must not forget! We must stay vigilant for anything different from our own past experience- for it may be another enemy. Or perhaps, a boon.”

“That’s confusing,” Byleth mutters back.

“Ugh! You can be such a dolt!” Sothis whinges, pulling at his hair, “Fine! Let me say… we are the wound in time. It is possible that such a wound will cause infections down the line.”

“That is a helpful analogy, thank you,” Byleth replies, genuinely.

“Forced back into the Knights of Seiros,” Jeralt mutters, as they walk, “I’m sorry to drag you into this, kiddo…”

  
He trails off.

“Are you listening?” he asks, stopping in his tracks to look at Byleth closely.

Byleth blinks, trying not to wilt under his father's gaze.

“Yes,” he lies.

Jeralt looks unconvinced.

“Right. Well, they want you to teach. Those brats, specifically.”

“Oh no,” Byleth deadpans.

He's trying to act the way he remembers he would, but it's hard when he actually loves teaching, and loves the aforementioned brats too.

Jeralt gives him another strange look.

“Uh-huh,” he says, also unconvinced, “They’ve given me back my old office, so how about we-“

They're at his office now, as Jeralt unlocks the doors. His hands stay on the key as Byleth waits; only Jeralt turns to view him with a stern, fatherly gaze which makes Byleth sweat a little.

He leans in very close.

“Talk.”


	4. KNOWING TIME BETRAYS

Jeralt’s door shuts with a tone of finality that puts Byleth ill at ease; mostly because he hasn’t worked out if (or how) he’s going to explain himself.

Fortunately, Jeralt is kind enough to wait. Despite his ominous words, as soon as the door shuts behind them he drops the act, bumping Byleth’s shoulder gently with his own as he walks past and busies himself with unpacking his meagre possessions.

That allows Byleth to ruminate. Sothis floats next to him, mirroring his stance, fingers curled under the chin.

“We would do well to consider our options,” she says, thoughtfully, “Not only are we telling him a great deal with little evidence, we may wish to be selective in our words.

Byleth closes his eyes in silent agreement. He inhales and opens his mouth to speak.

“I’m from the future,” he blurts out.

Oops.

He can feel Sothis’ bug-eyed frustration at his lack of tact. To their shared surprise, Jeralt laughs. He doesn’t get up, but he does look around at Byleth with incredulity.

“You’re from the future,” he echoes, his voice neutral despite the clear disbelief on his face.

“I am,” Byleth responds, with a hint of desperation.

He knows how ridiculous he sounds. Even saying it, he feels ridiculous, but he knows that less than twenty fours hour it was 1186 and he was preparing to engage an ambush by forces that this world doesn’t even know about yet. How is he meant to say that without it sounding ridiculous?

“You couldn’t have said it any worse!” Sothis exclaims, more frustrated than angry.

With Jeralt looking at him like that, his still heart surges into his throat. More words force themselves out of him, unbidden.

“On the 26th of the Ethereal Moon, a woman named Kronya kills you.”

As soon as he says it, he regrets it. Maybe it’s superstition he didn’t know he was liable to, but something about uttering the sentence out loud fills him with dread- as if he has summoned it into being by the mere power of suggestion.

Jeralt gets to his feet with a grunt and walks over to Byleth. Now he’s looking at him with a frown. Byleth shrinks away from Jeralt’s outstretched hand, the alien emotion of panic beginning to seep into his mind, and he continues, his voice sharp and quick.

“On the 20th of the Lone Moon 1181, the Empire declares war on the Church of Seiros, the Kingdom, and the Alliance,” he says, “I disappear in the battle, and wake up in 1185. I-“

He cuts himself off. Sothis is looking at him, with infinite patience. For all the swings her emotions take, she always gives him time. She’s right. This wasn’t the way to go about this conversation. He’s losing control of it. He needs to turn back.  
  


Turning back time is an ordeal, but it’s not hard in the traditional sense of the word; there is no difficulty in it. He has enough experience in the phenomenon that he is able to stop and wind back time for a short period surrounding himself, reviewing the events that have occurred, and deciding where he would like to start again from. The part of him that is Sothis reborn is comfortable in this. It feels as easy as breathing for her. But the part of him that is human feels like it’s being pulled apart piece by piece with every second he turns back. He can feel it in every piece of skin, muscle, and bone. A profound sense of disconnection from doing something that he should not be able to accomplish.

Humans are beholden to time- but he is not.

In the end, he’s used to the pain. He turns time back to before he blurted his words out.

Sothis links her fingers with his, a small encouragement, before she retreats into his mind.

Byleth takes the opportunity to study his father’s face. He looks to be concentrating on unpacking, but Byleth knows better; in reality, he knows Byleth is watching. He’s simply pretending otherwise.

He walks over to Jeralt and joins him in unpacking.

“What would you say if I told you I’m from the future?” Byleth asks, feeling a lot calmer this time. It’s surreal to say out loud, but the blind panic is manageable when he keeps his hands busy.

Jeralt looks at him sidelong.

“I would say that’s unbelievable,” he answers, “But so is looking older overnight.”

It doesn’t take long to unpack.

Silently, Byleth sits down on the ground, and Jeralt joins him. They sit across from one another in the spotless room, surrounded by the few possessions of a mercenary man.

Byleth looks down at his lap, mulling over his options and the many, many questions that all demand attention. There’s one that is ever pressing, though.

“Do you know what I am?” he asks, raising his head to look up at his father. He’s nervous to say it, ask it, but what it gets him a warm, fatherly hand on the back of his neck, pulling him in. He obliges, his head on Jeralt’s shoulder.

“You’re my son,” Jeralt answers, simply. Byleth lets the tears spill down his cheeks, unwilling or perhaps unable to respond in the moment.

He lets himself be held.

“Honestly?” Jeralt murmurs, “Whatever’s happened, I’ve never seen you so…”

“Alive?” Byleth offers, with a quiet sniff.

He can feel Jeralt shift around, so he untangles himself from the hug and looks up to find Jeralt looking back at him with a strange sort of intensity.

“No,” he says, emphatically, “Invested. You told me what was going to happen, and you led those brats like it was your job.”

He smiles lopsidedly.

“Which it is, now,” he adds, “You knew that. You knew what was going to happen.”

He looks past Byleth for a moment.

“You don’t usually think about consequences like that,” he adds, “And you don’t usually talk so much.”

Byleth rubs a hand over his eyes and nods.

They sit knee to knee, quietly.

“You’re from the future,” Jeralt says. This time, it’s not a question, nor is it incredulous. A little hesitant, but he can’t exactly blame his father for finding the idea far-fetched.

“A spell sent me back,” Byleth offers, after a few moments.

“Magic can do that?” Jeralt asks, raising both eyebrows.

“A special kind,” Byleth answers, “I- Oh. I have proof.”

He fumbles around himself, rummaging around until his hand slips into his inner breast pocket. He pulls out a box-

A stab of pain through his chest which he promptly ignores-

“Mother’s ring,” he explains, pulling said ring from the box with gentle fingers, “You left it to me.”

Jeralt’s look betrays his recognition. Silently, he pulls his own version out from where it was hidden under his shirt.

On a chain around his neck lies Sitri’s ring- the perfectly polished silver, the banding which wraps around itself in a loop on both sides, the simplified flower marked in gemstones of indigo which turn almost magenta in the midday sun- it’s the exact same as the ring in Byleth’s hand.

Jeralt is quiet. He didn’t used to understand the look his father got sometimes, but now he understands it to his core. It’s grief, grief that cannot heal even after years. Grief that leaves a scar, forever.

“Left it,” he echoes. He looks at Byleth, brow furrowing once again, “That explains what you said this morning. I left it to you because I died, didn’t I?”

Byleth inclines his head, ever so slightly.

“Oh kiddo,” Jeralt says, almost like an apology.

“It wasn’t fair,” Byleth says.

He can feel his own grief twisting inside him. It never went away, not from the day his father died in his arms. It was calmed by Dimitri’s unending patience and sympathy in the wake of it. It was calmed by his students, who cared for him so, and distracted him from his pain. It was calmed when everyone made sure he ate, and bathed, and slept, when it was hard to exist at all.

And when he awoke five years later, it was calmed by preoccupation, when the war left him no time to grieve. But it never, ever went away.

“It wasn’t fair,” he repeats, quieter.

He puts the ring back into its box, and back into his pocket. Jeralt slides his own back under his shirt- against his heart.

“Death never is,” he agrees, sounding world weary.

Byleth looks at him, evaluating, desperate to share some of his burden and yet unwilling to give any of it up. 

“There’s a war,” he adds, after a moment.

Jeralt meets his gaze head on. He isn’t dismissive, and Byleth almost wishes he’d fight against such an awful thing. Disagree, and push, and claim that there’s just no way the three countries would go to war. What could they even war for? And why? But that’s not his father. His father isn’t an optimist, and he isn’t naïve.

“There always is,” is what he says, instead.

Byleth looks down at his hands where they lay in his lap. He wants to peel his skin off, rip it away layer by layer until he can stare at his own bones- it’s a violent, intrusive thought, and one he struggles to shake off.

His mouth works around the words before he can get them out.

“Many die,” he says, hoarsely, “I tried to save them.”

Jeralt snaps him from his thoughts by placing a hand on his shoulder. He blinks up at his father in surprise.

“There’s no rush to tell me everything,” Jeralt says, “You’re getting paler by the second.”

Byleth swallows thickly- it feels like ash in his mouth.

“Let’s come back to this later,” Jeralt says, leaving Byleth no room to argue- “You’ve been here before?”

Byleth nods.

“Then you know your way around,” Jeralt says.

He gets up and offers Byleth his hand, pulling him to his feet. He rubs the back of his neck with a sigh.

“Alright. Look, I need to talk to the knights, and you need to talk to the other professors,” he says, “Just take it easy, okay?”

Byleth looks at him, struck by the childish urge to grab his arm and insist he stay. Jeralt, aware or not, ruffles his hair before he steps out of reach- and then shoves Byleth out the door too.

As Jeralt retreats down the stairs to the lower levels, Byleth composes himself once again. Sothis appears once again, resting her chin on the top of his head.

“You stood the Songstress and the Scholar up,” she says, flicking his ear, “Best go find them, quickly.”

He does turn towards the audience chamber, knowing that’s where they’ll be waiting- if they haven’t killed each other after being left alone together.

“They have names,” Byleth thinks back, a little amused.

Sothis lets out a petulant whine, floating behind him as he walks.

“Human names are so hard to remember,” she complains, “Such strange forms they make!”

He’s glad to see that Manuela and Hanneman haven’t killed each other whilst waiting for him. Sadly, they do look a little annoyed to have been stood up- so much for better first impressions.

When he approaches them, he dips into an apologetic bow.

“My apologies,” he says, still in his bow, “I was helping my father unpack.”

He rights himself, one hand still across his chest, the other behind him.

“My name is Byleth Eisner. I’m the new professor.”

His words come out a little stunted, a little awkward- he tries to enjoy the small victory of saying that many words out loud at all.

At least his audience is kind-hearted. He knows neither would make fun of his lacking social skills.

“Oh, no need to apologise,” Manuela croons, “You’re a little on the young side- what a responsibility to place on you.”

He missed Manuela too. Her intense fixation on finding the right man aside, she’s a wonderful teacher, a very dedicated physician, and she cares deeply for the students of the Officers Academy.

Hanneman he spent less time with, but he knows him to be an equally impressive teacher and a very astute scholar- a man who hides how deeply he cares for everyone in the monastery by being incredibly pushy about his research.

Manuela is also one of the few in the Academy to ever keep up with him in a drinking competition. Not that he wanted to engage in one- especially not with the students around- but it happened, and her tolerance was awfully impressive.

Silently (and childishly), he hopes he can recreate that night.

“Age and competence are not necessarily correlated-“ Hanneman begins, but Manuela interrupts him.

“Oh, please,” she says, rolling her eyes. Hanneman bristles but does not take the bait, to Byleth’s surprise. Probably holding back on my account, he thinks to himself.

“Anyway,” Hanneman bites out, “My name is Hanneman, I am a Crest scholar and professor here. When you have a moment to spare, I insist that you pay me a visit so we can delve into the subject further.”

Byleth nods.

No point in resisting it. Maybe he’ll be a little less frosty himself; last time, whilst he had done as Hanneman requested, it had made his skin crawl. He had, in truth, avoided the man. Just a little.

“I’m Manuela. I’m a professor, a physician, a songstress, and available-“

She winks.

“-It’s nice to meet you.”

Byleth nods again.

“It seems you’ll be taking charge of one of the academy’s three houses. I expect you haven’t yet been briefed on the nature of each, have you?”

Byleth takes this opportunity to jump in.

“I have some knowledge of the houses,” he says, “I talked with the heads on the way here.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Hanneman says, surprised, “That makes things easier. Perhaps, then, you should get your bearings and talk to them some more.”

Byleth notices Manuela’s cat-like smile and tenses.

“I let the house leaders know you’re the new professor,” she says, “No one else. I must say, they were very enthused to hear it. You must have made quite the impression on the little ducklings.”

“Manuela,” Hanneman says, exasperated, “Please don’t call the future emperor, king, and sovereign duke ‘ducklings.’”

“I’ll do what I want,” she says, flippantly, then brightly, “Good luck, professor. You’ll need it.”

His two fellow professors take their leave, abandoning Byleth to his thoughts. Sothis floats down to his level, her hair swaying around her.

“What do you think we should do?” Byleth asks.

“You’re asking me? The choice is yours,” Sothis replies, nonchalant. She tries to examine her reflection in the stained-glass windows and pouts when she’s not visible.

Byleth purses his lips, deep in thought.

The end goal, roughly, is to prevent the war. Any anomalies notwithstanding, he needs to expose Edelgard’s machinations; that is, if he cannot convince her to stop. At the same time, he needs to investigate Those Who Slither in the Dark and end them.

Wait, maybe that first.

“Find and destroy the Slither people,” Sothis says, “That is of the highest import, but perhaps the least actively concerning.”

“They’re the ones behind everything,” Byleth echoes, thoughtfully.

“But no one knows this,” Sothis counters.

“Then expose Edelgard,” Byleth muses, “And if I can’t do that… prepare the students better than before?”

He sighs, feeling the beginnings of a headache rumble back to life in his skull. Rubbing a hand over his face, he gives Sothis a weary look.

“We have time,” she says.

“Not enough,” Byleth replies grimly.

He takes some more time to prepare himself (mostly mentally) before he can find the fortitude to leave the audience chamber.

Okay, in reality he beats a hasty retreat because he can hear footsteps; footsteps he is sure are Alois’, and as fond as he is of the man, he really can’t face how bright and bubbly he is when his own mind is so dark.

It won’t do to introduce himself to his students when all he can think about is their faces, weathered by war. He watched some of them die. Trying to balance the disturbing sense of hope that this time, he can stop it, with the dread of having to redo the pain and agony of the past six years-

There’s something he needs to do first.

“No one’s coming,” Sothis says, being his gracious scout, “Go, go, go!”

He doesn’t want to meet anyone yet. The students can wait for another five minutes, he tells himself, switching from slinking sneakily to striding with purpose- knowing that no one will bother him if he looks busy- past the marketplace, past the docks, and into the greenhouse.

He only dares breathe when he’s safely inside. There’s just one other person, a female monk he doesn’t recognise. She’s watering the plants when he takes a step forward.

“Hello sir,” she says, her voice as soft as the flowers next to her.

Byleth approaches cautiously, coming to a stop next to her. Watching the drops of water fall, sliding off leaves, and sinking into the dirt- it’s relaxing, at least.

“Ma’am,” he murmurs, “Excuse me. Do you grow Valerian?”

“Oh, yes,” she says brightly, “Right there. A most unusual flower.”

She points to his right. He kneels down, sweeping his cloak behind him as he reaches around to pluck the pale pink blooms. He shakes the dirt from their roots, plucking the straggling hairs away.

“Are you a traveller?” she asks, watching him.

“I… suppose,” he answers, aware of his evasiveness. A twinge of vulnerability in his chest, the echo of a heartbeat he never had- “They’re for my mother.”

“How lovely,” the monk says, “I’m sure she’ll love them.”

“I hope so,” Byleth responds, glad that the strange, empty feeling that fills his lungs when he thinks about his mother doesn’t show in the infliction of his voice.

Wordlessly he stands, holding the home-made bouquet to his chest, and slinks back the way he came. Head down, busy; he slides a piece of rope from his belt into his hands, concentrating as he picks away at it until it’s little more than a ribbon of twine.

The graveyard is as he remembers. It’s small, a scant few plots. After all, most of the graves are far, far below the monastery. And they’re empty graves, all of them.

Even Sitri’s is empty.

“Hello,” Byleth murmurs, suddenly self-conscious. He swallows the anxiety and kneels down at his mother’s grave, tying the Valerian together and placing it on the ground for her. “I’m back.”

He shuffles a little closer. Her grave is in a poor state; the words are totally illegible. Aelfric must still be away at this point in time.

He rips another strip from his cloak to gently rub away at the slow-build of dust from years of rain and shine; uncorks the rest of the water he used to clean his injury earlier to splash it over her headstone, until, after a little bit of elbow-grease, the words are clear once again.

_Sitri Eisner_

_1139-1159_

_Resting in the warm embrace of cherished memories._

Resting in Abyss, not beneath this fake grave, Byleth thinks bitterly. It strikes him, with a sense of profound loss, that he is now older than his mother was when he was born- when she sacrificed her own life so that he had a chance.

He swallows the knot in his throat.

“I wonder if this is a second chance,” he confides, barely above a whisper, “Or a personal hell.”

Even now, he has no idea how to feel about his mother. He’s seen her body, and how similar they look. But even the scant things that Jeralt, Aelfric, and Rhea have told him over his life can’t create a real image of her; of who she was.

Sitting here, with his eyes glued to the tiny petals of the Valerian he heard she liked a lifetime ago, he wonders what she would say to him. What she would think of him. What she would think of the war, of the Church, of Those Who Slither in the Dark. Of Edelgard, and Claude, and Dimitri. Of his teaching. His students.

What would she think if she knew what Byleth had allowed to happen?

“I’ll protect father this time,” he adds, his voice darker, “I promise.”

Clearing his throat, he shifts until he’s sitting cross legged once again.

“I won’t let them defile your body this time either,” he continues, “And I’ll… I’ll do everything better this time.”

He’s so tired. All he wants to do is sleep, but his brain is a machine, turning and screeching. Too much to do. Too many people to protect. He cannot falter- he will not.

“Be back soon,” he murmurs.

His legs protest when he stands, but he does feel better for the visit.

“Perhaps you should drink some of that bean juice,” Sothis says, appearing above him.

  
“… Coffee?” he asks, brows furrowed.

  
Sothis shrugs lightly.

“I do not keep track of human inventions and you cannot make me,” she says, haughtily.

The ridiculousness does make Byleth snort, which she seems to be pleased by.

“Fair enough,” he thinks back, “Coffee is a good idea.”

Coffee is a _great_ idea. The dining hall is busy at this time of day, which makes it easy to slip in unnoticed, grab himself a giant flagon, slip into the pantry where he knows they keep the coffee beans, find a grinder for them, boil water, and make himself a whole flagon of steaming hot coffee.

He pauses before adding a couple of teaspoons of sugar.

Perfect.

Cradling the steaming flagon of coffee, Byleth emerges from the dining hall. Just as everything else, this gives him a sense of déjà vu, but he forces himself to see the positives in meeting everyone all over again.

He’ll do better, he thinks, forcing it into his head until it becomes a mantra. He just needs to go the classrooms. He just has to go. Use his feet to go. Walk. Go.

Where he actually ends up is the marketplace.

“Nervous? I was too, my first day.”

He jumps at the voice, wheeling around to locate its origins. There’s a man reclining against the gate to the monastery proper who waves sheepishly.

“Sorry!” the man chirps, “I didn’t mean to make you jump. You’re the new professor, aren’t you? I know I’m not meant to know-“

He stage-whispers.

“I overheard Miss Manuela telling the house leaders,” he explains, eyes wide, “That is you, isn’t it?”

Byleth nods, the hint of a smile in his eyes- “Nico,” he says.

“Huh?!” Sothis splutters, “He has a name?”

“Oh! You know my name?” the Gatekeeper says, utterly shocked, “Wow! That must mean we’re destined to be friends!”

He snaps into a salute.

“Of course he has a name,” Byleth thinks back, bemused, “He’s not just his job.”

“Nicodème Lunel is my name-“

He rubs the back of his neck.

“-Is what I would say, if you didn’t already guess it! It’s a pleasure to meet you, professor!”

Byleth sips his coffee as Nico chats, clearly abuzz to have someone to talk to.

“I’m the gatekeeper. Er, as you probably know. I stand here at this glorious entrance and leisurely watch over the comings and goings of everyone. Great people watching! Plus, sometimes I can make people laugh or smile and…”

He trails off, looking a little guilty; averting his eyes, he scuffs the ground with his foot.

“I mean, I vigilantly guard this entrance with my very life! And there’s nothing to report. No sir.”

Byleth slides his flagon into one hand and offers the other. Nico stares at it for a moment before enthusiastically taking it, shaking it with such vigour that Byleth nearly spills his coffee on himself.

After that, he feels a little better. He wanders away from the marketplace and towards the classrooms. Unless he’s mistaken, this is not only where the house leaders will be, but most of the students.

Unfortunately for him, the first person to see him is also the one he has the most mixed emotions on.

Her eyes on his before he can think to do anything but meet them head on.

“Hello professor,” Edelgard says.

Byleth feels Sothis bristle. Or perhaps he’s the one bristling.

“I was hoping you would lend your strength to the Empire, but-“

She sounds almost shy. Well, no, she sounds as confident as ever, but perhaps it’s a little easier to read her now. She’s looking at Byleth dead on, but he can read it in her eyes that she’s nervous- not just assessing him, but genuinely nervous.

“Perhaps she knows in her heart of hearts you are the key to stopping her rampage across my land,” Sothis mutters.

“It will be good to have you close,” she says.

Byleth inclines his head.

“I never properly introduced myself, did I? My name is Edelgard von Hresvelg; I am the princess and heir apparent to the Adrestian Empire.”

Byleth swallows his pride, his aching anger, and his regret.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says.

Edelgard gives him a small smile.

“I wonder if you will be tasked with leading the Black Eagles,” she muses.

Sothis floats over her, clearly displeased.

“Not likely,” Sothis says, haughtily.

“No matter my class, I will be available to tutor and advice everyone,” Byleth says, “I… hope to help.”

Edelgard opens her mouth to speak when someone else jumps in-

“And help you certainly will!” Claude chirps, sliding over to them. He can’t say he isn’t glad for the interruption; Claude gives him a little twirl and flourish. Edelgard flushes in response.

“Claude,” she says, emphatically, “Must you interrupt us?”

“Oh, I must,” he replies, shooting her a wink, “I can’t help it! If I see two wonderfully interesting people having a conversation, I have to do what they’re talking about.”

Edelgard lifts her chin up.

“I was welcoming our new professor,” she says, exasperated. Her eyes lock with Byleth’s once again- “The Black Eagle’s classroom is just here. I will see you soon.”

She turns on her heel and retreats into said classroom.

“Awh, princess,” Claude calls, “Don’t go! We’ll… And she’s gone.”

Claude scratches his chin.

“She’s a strange one,” he muses, then quickly, “I didn’t say that out loud, did I?”

“Nice to see you too Claude,” Byleth says, sipping his coffee.

“Same to you, teach!” he replies, unfazed, “I’m glad the Church is as enamoured with you as we all are.”

He leans in closer. Byleth doesn’t back away.

“I’d introduce myself but I’m pretty sure you already know who I am,” he says.

  
“Khalid,” Sothis says, her eyes bright like stars.

Byleth’s brow furrows as tries to shoot her a subtle look. She doesn’t elaborate.

“No? Alright! Well, I’m Claude, which you know, my house is the Golden Deer, and I think we’re the most down to earth,” he says, “If you catch my meaning.”

“I doubt that,” Byleth says, not unkindly.

Claude chuckles, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Maybe,” he says, evasively, “What are you drinking there?”

“Coffee,” Byleth says, offering him the flagon.

Claude eyes it but takes it, taking a sip.

“Hmm,” he says, “Oh- you put sugar in it? Interesting. You like sweets, huh?”

Byleth can’t entirely hide his amused chuckle- even trying to mask it with a cough makes Claude light up.

“Yes,” Byleth admits, taking his drink back, “You?”

“Me?” Claude says. There is a moment where Byleth wonders if he’ll evade the question or lie. But- to the surprise of (perhaps) both of them- he tells the truth.

“I like spicy foods,” Claude says, sounding almost bashful.

Byleth nods.

“We’ll have to share a meal,” he says.

Claude is regarding him with a different kind of curiosity now; less hostile than before. Less guarded.

“Aren’t you a card,” Claude says, ruefully.

He sees Claude, older and more confident (but paradoxically more cautious), with his hair wrapped, his bow slung over his shoulder, shielding another from a blow and delivering a perfectly aimed counter. Is that Claude still alive? Did he see what happened? Or is that nothing more than a memory now, never to exist again?

Maybe he pales, or visibly disengages from the conversation, because Claude frowns at him.

“Teach?” he asks, “It’s been quite the day- if you need to rest, there’s plenty of time to meet everyone later-“

Byleth shakes his head.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“Alright,” Claude says, unconvinced, “Well. I’ll follow the princess’ lead- be over here, with the Deer. Come see us when everyone else gets a bit much!”

Byleth waves when Claude hops back into the Golden Deer’s classroom. Suppressing another soul-deep sigh, he takes another drag of his slowly cooling coffee and trudges up towards the Blue Lion’s room, where he knows Dimitri is. To his surprise, when he does spot Dimitri, he's lost in deep concentration. He’s close enough to be leaning on the wall behind him, but is conspicuously not, his eyes glued to a book.

“Hmmm,” Sothis murmurs, floating around him, “This seems to be a tactics primer. He may have been inspired by your leadership already.”

Sothis floats back to Byleth.

Byleth takes a moment just to watch him. He takes another sip of his coffee.

“Hello Dimitri,” he says, eventually.

Dimitri startles a little, eyes wide as he tucks the book to his chest.

“Oh!” he exclaims, “It’s you! Forgive my rudeness-“

He takes an eager step forward.

“Professor Manuela told me that you are to be a professor here! I believe we could all benefit greatly from your guidance,” he gushes, “And I must say that, personally, I am delighted to spend more time with you.”

He dips into a bow.

“I’m sure I’m not the first to say this, but welcome to the monastery! You are investigating the houses, are you not?”

Byleth nods.

“I do hope you will acquaint yourself with the Blue Lions,” Dimitri says.

Byleth sips his coffee, unwilling to look away from Dimitri’s face- to his credit, he barely squirms under the undivided gaze.

“Our classroom is just here. I believe most of the students are nearby- please, do ask me if you wish to know more about anyone in particular.”

Byleth considers his options.

Once again, the analytical side of him whispers to him: he should really integrate himself with Edelgard.

“If you think you can sway her from her path, then you are a mortal fool,” Sothis says, not unkindly, “She has made her decision. I do not think your influence will change her mind.”

He is inclined to agree with Sothis’ assessment. Besides that, the sense of trickery that would come from becoming close with her simply because he wishes to put a stop to her actions- though in the grand scheme of things, it would perhaps be worth it, even thinking about doing such a disingenuous thing makes him feel a little dirty.

His concern for Claude is the least pressing- simply because he knows Claude will fair just fine without his involvement. The boy is incredibly adept at his balancing act, frighteningly intelligent, and committed to his goals. Were his goals as bloody as Edelgard’s, then he has to wonder what horrors he might inflict.

When it comes down to it, he can’t help but to concern himself with Dimitri.

“You and your soft heart,” Sothis muses, “I cannot tell if it is your greatest strength or greatest weakness.”

“I have a question,” Byleth says.

Dimitri perks up further- if that’s possible.

“Do go on,” he says, brightly.

“What do you think unites the Blue Lions?” he asks.

Dimitri’s brow furrows lightly; he tilts his head to glance at their room, considering his answer.

“An interesting question,” Dimitri muses, “Just as I’d expect. Well…”

He lifts his gaze to the clear blue sky above them, the same colour as the huge banners that sway in heavy ripples every time the breeze picks up.

“I dare say everyone in the Officers Academy has had their fair share of trials and tribulations,” he says, his word slow and thoughtful, “Still, I would say that our spirit is one of resilience in the face of such trials. To overcome difficulty without losing our integrity. To… live up to our own expectations of ourselves, even when such a thing seems impossible.”

He looks down at Byleth.

“At least, that is my hope.”

In his heart, Byleth knows that he could never abandon the Blue Lions.

“Dimitri,” Byleth says, “Can you keep a secret for me?”

Dimitri blinks in surprise, lips parting. He nods.

“Of course,” he says.

He inches closer to Dimitri. Dimitri inches closer in return, until their whispers reach no one else. Dimitri has to duck his head to listen.

“I’m allowed to choose which House to teach,” Byleth divulges, “I want to teach the Lions.”

He can feel Dimitri’s grin before he sees it.

“Don’t tell,” Byleth adds, finishing his drink and watching Dimitri’s giddy look.

Was he this happy to meet me before? Did I not care?

He stuffs the self-loathing down deep and basks in the look Dimitri is giving him; he’s making absolutely no attempts to hide his excitement.

“This is wonderful,” he whispers, “I’m so pleased- please, let us dine together later? Once you have introduced yourself to the others.”

He pauses, raising his unoccupied arm to scratch gingerly at his neck.

“Of course, we have had an arduous day, and I wouldn’t wish to presume-“

“I would like that,” Byleth interrupts, fully anticipating Dimitri’s own doubts.

Dimitri offers him a weak, embarrassed chuckle-turned-cough.

“I will keep your choice- and your profession- to myself,” he says, “I am at your discretion. Oh, I shouldn’t keep you any longer.”

Despite Dimitri’s words, Byleth can still sense his presence when he walks away. He’s not going so far as to hover, but as Byleth wanders between the three rooms, introducing himself (or, in some cases, letting the students talk at him because as grateful as he is to see them, all of them, he’s tired in a way that he can’t even comprehend fully), Dimitri seems to wander just outside, watching him.

“We went back in time,” Sothis says, amused, “I do not find it surprising you are tired.”

“Aren’t you?” he thinks back.

“I am always tired,” Sothis replies, sardonically, “I am simply used to it where you are not.”

Tired or not, he forges on with the introductions.

Hubert and Petra look to be having an incredibly strange and potentially dangerous conversation when Byleth approaches them.

He has mixed emotions about Hubert. The man is, almost certainly, without moral qualm and certainly finds enjoyment in cruel and unusual acts- but he has never made an attempt to hide his true nature.

Hubert looks at him like he’s evaluating- because he is. He calls himself Edelgard’s servant- and he is.

Petra he almost feels sorry for. Now he knows she is, without a doubt, a prisoner in a gilded cage. But she has done wonders with that cage, and she is whip-smart, as well as a very adept swordswoman.

The problem is that when he looks at her:

Edelgard really was cruel when she laid out her defences, putting Petra between them and progression. It made sense; she was one of the best soldiers left. He had faced Petra himself, because he couldn’t let her get to any of the Lions with that wicked blade. He had put the Sword of the Creator in her heart and killed her.

He had killed her. Her blood flooding over his hands. But now she is here, whole, and smiling at him.

She’s only fifteen.

Nausea sweeps over him, and like before, he forces it down, down, down.

“I’m pleased to meet you too, Petra,” Byleth says, “And you, Hubert.”

And inside, Caspar and Linhardt are bickering warmly. Fortunately, seeing them does not smack of the same pain- he had managed to avoid engaging them. He had only seen them at a distance. Well, he’d heard Caspar yell profanities at him.

“Do you have a Crest?” Linhardt says, surprising both Byleth and Caspar.

Byleth shrugs, Linhardt squints at him- as if he can smell the lie.

Caspar quickly drags him back into their argument. Byleth catches the phrase ‘knife-hands’ and promptly tunes it out, turning around to bump into Dorothea.

He’d seen her from a distance too. They’d locked eyes, and something had passed over her that he’s sure she saw reflected on his face. She didn’t attack. He didn’t attack. And the Lions marched forward.

“Well, aren’t you just lovely,” Dorothea says, her voice as sweet as anything.

“I like your hat,” Byleth says, monotone.

Dorothea’s eyebrows raise. She laughs, raising a hand to her mouth.

“Why thank you,” she says, “You have a good eye for fashion, stranger. Are you the mercenary Edie mentioned?”

Byleth’s nod causes Dorothea to clasp her hands together.

“My name is Dorothea,” she says, “If you need someone to show you around, then come find me.”

He’s glad to see her here, without that haunted look.

Unfortunately for him, the ghosts (and sins) of his past keep piling up inside his mind, because he is called over by Ferdinand.

“We owe you a great debt!” Ferdinand says, brightly.

Byleth looks at him and sees him pierced through by arrows, a final thrust of the Lance of Ruin finishing his fight forever. He’d fallen from his steed, blood staining his teeth, and he just wouldn’t budge. He'd always liked Ferdinand, as ridiculous as he could be, why he wouldn’t surrender, why sacrifice himself for the Empire, why-

“Excuse me?” Ferdinand says, concerned, “Are you alright?”

Byleth nods tightly.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Ah, if you’re no good with strangers, then you’ll get along with Bernie!” he chimes, without malice.

“Hey!” Bernadetta protests, even as she shrinks away-

Burning. The smell of burning flesh. He can’t believe Edelgard would do something so callous, so cruel, just to try and get an edge on them. Bernadetta’s eyes are filled with tears at the senselessness of it, but he can see in her final moments she just accepts it and he wants to vomit and cry-

“Strangers can be frightening,” Byleth says, apropos of nothing.

“Yeah,” Bernadetta says, her voice weak. Her eye contact is fleeting, but he thinks he sees gratitude in it.

He flees to the Deer, but (no doubt due to Claude’s machinations) they quickly surround him.

“You’re Captain Jeralt’s kid,” Leonie says accusingly, and six years of those accusations burn through Byleth’s mind. He barely bites back his groan-

“You look big and strong,” Hilda coos, “You must be joining the Knights, right?”

“You saved Claude,” Lysithea says, “You must be skilled.”

“It’s such an honour to meet you,” Ignatz stammers, his nervous voice bright.

“Are you drinking tea? You must join me for a cup,” Lorenz says languidly.

Sothis groans loudly inside Byleth’s mind.

“I love the children as much as you do,” she says, mildly, “But they are so much to handle at this young age!”

“They’re not that young,” Byleth thinks back, but with a heavy level of fatigue.

He bows to them all and flees again, but this time to the kitchen-

And locks himself in the pantry, just to decompress.

“Ugh,” Byleth mutters, sinking to the ground with a soft thud.

He takes a few moments just to breathe and try to clear his mind. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. With every exhale, he forces himself to push the images of dead friends and enemies out. All of it. It won’t serve him, not in this moment. He needs to be fresh, and new, and approach everyone to the best of his ability.

“You would do well not to run yourself into the ground,” Sothis scolds, “We have not even been here for one day!”

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Inhale.

Hold.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Byleth puts his hands to his sides and pushes himself to his feet with a wince. He really should rewrap his elbow with actual bandages. Even if he healed the laceration with magic, the muscle-ache would stay, phantom pain or no.

Sneaking out of the pantry, he finds that the sun is lower in the sky. It’s afternoon now, the light softer on the ancient bricks, and some of the tension that he’s been holding all day is beginning to ebb away.

The Blue Lion classroom feels like home. Mostly because it is. As he approaches, he can hear the soft chatter from inside. At this time of day, Dimitri will be training, so it’s time to introduce himself to the Lions.

It feels so very strange. He loves these people, every single one of them. He’s been a part of their lives for years. He knows them, and they know him. It’s jarring to think that this will be their first time seeing him. Of course, last time he didn’t really care about whatever impression he made. He wanted to meet these new people, so he did, if a little begrudgingly.

Now he cares, and-

“Are you nervous?” Sothis says, incredulously. “My my! You have fought great beasts, won wars, and travelled through time- yet to meet these children, you are nervous!”

She kicks her legs as she giggles insistently. He shoots her an embarrassed look.

“Oh,” she says, wiping a tear from her eye, “You are quite adorable.”

Steeling himself (and blocking out Sothis’ laughter), he peeks into the classroom. The first to notice him is Sylvain, who, honestly, was probably looking out for pretty faces to chase.

“Well, well! Are you the mercenary you saved His Highness? It’s an honour to meet you,” he says, coming up to Byleth with his trademark smile, “He did gush, but wow, you are a beauty too.”

Byleth blinks, and chuffs with laughter.

“Oh, really?” Sylvain says, with apparent mock offense, “Way to hurt a guy’s feelings.”  
  


Byleth shakes his head.

“Thank you,” he says, genuinely. It seems to ease Sylvain’s hurt feelings, which he’s glad for.

“Who’s this?” Mercedes says, her lilting voice delicate in the air, “You don’t look familiar at all.”

“I’m not done introducing myself yet,” Sylvain protests.

“Too late!” Annette chirps, skipping over, “I’m Annette! You’re the mercenary that saved the house leaders, aren’t you! Oh, oh, this is so exciting!”

Sylvain rolls his eyes.

“Anyway,” he says, “I’m Sylvain Jose Gautier. Feel free to make fun of my compliments whenever you like.”

“I wasn’t making fun,” Byleth says evenly, “I was surprised.”  
  


“Surprised? A man who looks like-“ he gestures, “How you look? Uh-huh.”

“People are put off by my expression,” Byleth offers.

“Why would that be?” Mercedes says, sounding offended on his behalf, “You have a kind expression.”

“You’re not-“

“I’m not!” Sylvain protests, before Ingrid can even finish her sentence.

As Sylvain steps back, throwing his hands in the air and making his exit, Ingrid approaches Byleth.

“We owe you a debt for helping Prince Dimitri,” she says. She sounds so serious, he notes wistfully.

“He asked for my help,” he responds, meeting Ingrid’s eyes, “I provided it happily.”

Some of the suspicion he can read in her eyes goes away. That’s a start.

“He was impressed by you,” Felix interjects, “We should spar.”

“We will,” Byleth says, mysteriously. This, he knows, will be what Felix wants to hear- he’s correct, as Felix immediately adopts a tiny smile and disengages from the conversation.

He follows after Sylvain.

Annette and Mercedes drift off too- they’re still talking about him, just not at him. He gives them the space to do so. It’s only fair. It leaves Ashe and Dedue, who are currently leaning over a book depicting a desert bloom.

“Hi there!” Ashe says, looking up as Byleth studies the book, “You must be the one everyone’s talking about- great to meet you.”

“Chuparosa,” Byleth says. Ashe tilts his head as Dedue raises his, regarding Byleth with a look he can read as surprise. “The main food for hummingbirds.”

“Indeed,” Dedue murmurs, “Curious.”

He looks away, then back at Byleth.

“His Highness spoke of you. He said you rescued him,” he says.

Byleth tilts his head left to right.

“Rescued is a strong word,” he says, “I helped.”

“Regardless,” Dedue says, insistently, “You have my eternal gratitude. This debt will not go unpaid.”

Byleth links his hands behind his back and inclines his head.

“Are you going to join the Knights of Seiros? I bet they want someone as skilled as you!” Ashe enthuses, smiling at him.

“Maybe,” Byleth says, evasively. It doesn’t blunt Ashe’s enthusiasm.

“Well, whatever happens, it was great to meet you,” he says. Dedue nods.

And that’s that. There are more people- the Church affiliated, for one- but those are the students he’ll be interacting with the most. His students. His children. He lets his feet take him away from the Lions. Although his heart may ache for years lost, he is filled with a renewed sense of purpose; seeing them so young, unfettered by war. He has to try again. He has to try and save them from what awaits.

"That will all come, in time," Sothis says, her voice a balm to his frazzled mind. He nods in response, inhaling the monastery air. He must have been decompressing in the pantry for some time, because the sun is moving ever closer to the horizon. "Best not keep the little prince waiting."

And so, he moves towards the dining hall.


	5. FAINT LIGHTS

_20th of the Great Tree Moon. Evening._

The dining hall is fit to bursting, but this time, he doesn’t mind so much. There’s something about being lost in the anonymity of a crowd that suits him greatly.

“That, and you are quite the glutton,” Sothis teases.

He can’t really argue with that. He loves food, especially in large quantities. He’s wondered previously if his huge appetite is a side-effect of being a vessel for the goddess, or if it’s just something purely his own. The only way to know would be to ask his father if his mother too ate everything in sight- but that seems more than a little impertinent a question to pose.

Speaking of, Jeralt is here too, at the far end with the dining hall with the Knights of Seiros. He’s more engaged in the conversation than Byleth would expect. The two of them have always been insular individuals, caring little for others outside their inner circle and finding it quite the hurdle to understand the outside world. To see his father chat with strangers makes him feel stronger too.

He wonders how much of it has to do with Alois seated at his father’s right, looking at him intently. So intently it is as if he believes if he looks away for so much as a moment Jeralt may disappear from his life yet again.

“Hey kiddo,” Jeralt says, with affection in his voice at Byleth’s approach, “How are feeling?”

  
Byleth nods in lieu of an answer, flashing him a warm look.

  
“Good,” he says, “If you want to join us, pull up a seat.”

Byleth doesn’t respond to that either. There’s a small moment of awkwardness from the Knights who haven’t met him yet, waiting expectantly for his answer- but Jeralt nods in understanding at Byleth’s silence.

“Well, we’ll be here,” he says, reaching up with a free hand to ruffle Byleth’s hair, “Take it easy, hm?”

The knights immediately delve back into their stories; rapidly switching between sharing their own tall tales, catching Jeralt up on what happened since he left, and prodding him for stories of his own.

That frees Byleth to look around for his own dining partner.

“Date,” Sothis says, with a snort.

“It is not,” Byleth thinks back quickly, “He only met me today. He’s being polite.”

“Polite,” Sothis echoes, incredulously, “You… oh, never mind.”

Dimitri is waiting for him just away from the people queueing up for their food, observing the crowd with something almost nostalgia in his eyes.

“Ah, you came!” he says brightly, “I do hope this isn’t a trouble for you?”

Byleth shakes his head.

“Wonderful,” Dimitri says, “I really think it is the least I can do after you came to our aid so valiantly.”

“You’re too kind,” Byleth replies, his voice soft in the din of the crowd.

Dimitri laughs.

“Hardly!” he says.

The idea of a hearty meal after such a long day fills Byleth with a sense of childlike glee. It takes genuine effort to stop his salivating as the line inches closer to the food.

“Are you, perchance, hungry?” Dimitri ventures, with something that almost sounds like teasing in his infliction.

“Yes,” Byleth says, immediately.

“I see,” Dimitri replies, with amusement- he leans over to grab some bowls and hands them to Byleth.

Their fingers brush as the bowls change hands.

“Thank you,” Byleth says, scooping them under his arms as Dimitri retrieves his own.

“I do hope we can find a table,” Dimitri muses, “I did not consider how very busy it would be.”

“You’re the prince,” Byleth points out.

“Yes, but I would never ask someone to- forfeit their table,” Dimitri responds, scandalised by the very thought, “That would be incredibly rude- I would rather eat on the floor.”

Byleth chuffs at that, amused.

Dimitri’s eyes all but twinkle.

When it’s (finally) their turn to choose their food, Byleth immediately fills one bowl with onion gratin soup, and the other with cheesy verona stew.

And then he takes Dimitri’s bowls from his arms- ignoring his wordless protest- and fills those with the same.

“I-“  
  


Byleth balances all four in his arms with ease, slipping out of the line. Dimitri grabs them both drinks and chases after him, light on his feet through the crowd.

“How- how did you know-“

“You were looking at it,” Byleth says neutrally.

He was- but, Byleth also knows Dimitri’s preferred dishes; foods that have a strong enough odour that he can enjoy it despite his ageusia. And these two are Faerghus dishes, with those qualities, which are also hearty enough to improve on building muscle- something he knows Dimitri also looks for.

Byleth does manage find them a seat at the end of one of the long tables.

“You have a discerning eye,” Dimitri says, as Byleth sets the bowls down, “I didn’t even realise I was staring.”

“Too busy teasing me,” Byleth replies mildly, before digging into his meal.

It is as amazing as he’d hoped. It feels like years (ha) since he had substantial food, and eating something so tasty, in a safe environment no less, feels very good indeed. He wolfs down the soup first, careful of his table manners, but unable to really stop himself considering how hungry he is.

Dimitri flushes.

“Aha- yes, you have me there,” he admits, sheepishly, “My sincere apologies.”

He’s actually staring at Byleth eating- until he looks up. Then he averts his eyes and begins to eat his own meal.

Pausing to take a drink, Byleth blinks as Dimitri’s previous words register.

“I wasn’t protesting,” he says.

“Oh,” Dimitri responds, sipping his soup, “Good. Good. I’m…”

He looks off to the side.

“Goodness what is wrong with me,” he mutters, low enough that Byleth only just hears it.

He decides to let that one go, and the two eat with the companionable rumble of chatter and clinking cutlery surrounding them like a blanket.

With most now eating or finishing their meals, said chatter reaches a comfortable level; enough to camouflage conversations in the unfocused hum of many voices all at once.

“May I ask you something?” Dimitri says, as Byleth polishes off his soup in record time.

He stops himself before he can wolf down the stew too.

“Mm?” he offers.

“Why is it that you wished to teach us? I am thrilled, of course, but I find myself curious,” he says, thoughtfully, “I had wondered if you would wish to teach the Black Eagles. They are… the more prestigious house.”

Byleth looks down at the table. He thinks of the Empire’s banners unfurling over Garreg Mach, the thunder of thousands of soldier’s feet on ancient stone, the demonic beasts screaming. And falling, deep into the darkness, falling.

He blinks and sips his water, pulling the bowl of stew closer to him, almost protectively.

“Do you really think that?” he counters, propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin on his fist to level Dimitri with a look.

Dimitri looks back at him. He does not shy away from such an intense look but meets the gaze head on.

“Perhaps… prestigious was not the right phrase,” he says, carefully.

Byleth hums back.

“I don’t care about past glory,” Byleth says, evenly. “I think that actions tell more about a person than any justification.”

“You speak as if they have committed some terrible crime,” Dimitri says, sounding a little troubled- and defensive.

Byleth purses his lips.

“I’ve travelled most places,” he says thoughtfully, after a moment, “The strong trample the weak. The Empire thinks that’s it’s duty.”

Dimitri gives him a wary look.

“Sorry,” Byleth adds, quieter.

“No,” Dimitri says, thoughtfully, “I’m not necessarily disagreeing with you, professor.”

He stops eating to think over his next words before he continues.

“I am, in fact, inclined to agree. It is an attitude that prevails in all our lands, to some extent- I only hope that with Edelgard’s leadership, she may be able to change that attitude- as I endeavour to do, and I’m sure Claude does also.”

Byleth feels his heart sink like a stone.

Unlikely.

Still, maybe he shouldn’t count Edelgard out so quickly. It’s hard to admit to himself, but he almost doesn’t want to see her change her mind- because it would mean that she could always have changed it, but she didn’t. She clung on to the bitter end, as the bodies piled up.

Would it really hurt to try?

“Your resources aren’t limitless,” Sothis counters, in his mind, “We cannot commit to stopping the war’s consequences _and_ stopping it from ever happening.”

Every time he feels like he has the answer, it slips through the cracks in his mind like so much sand.

The two lapse into silence as Dimitri finishes his soup. When he’s done, he looks up at Byleth through his lashes.

“I don’t mean to pry,” he says, “But it sounds like you’ve had a bad experience with the Empire.”

Byleth lets out a hollow laugh, and instantly regrets it from the look in Dimitri’s eyes. He’s not sure what’s worse- pity, or empathy.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” he says, wincing, “Sorry.”

“Of course,” Dimitri says softly, kindly, “We all have our demons.”

“I shouldn’t let my prejudices rule me,” Byleth replies, with a note of melancholy in his otherwise forever-monotonous voice, “It’s a poor example for my students.”

“You’re only human,” Dimitri says; he reaches across the table to take Byleth’s hand and squeeze it. This shocks Byleth- and also, apparently, shocks Dimitri. As quickly as he does it, he retracts the offending appendage, and pretends nothing happened.

Byleth decides not to even think about the fact that he’s not ‘only human’ at all.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, inhaling the last of the stew and sitting back.

The sense of contentment from being full is soured by his own thoughts, which have been stirred up and are now swirling in every corner of his mind, like a tempest fit to wreck him.

Perhaps sensing his dark thoughts, Dimitri intervenes once again.

“You must have stories from the road,” he says, conversationally, “Could I trouble you to share one? I am intrigued by your life.”

This time, Byleth’s snort of laughter isn’t bitter.

“My life has been a strange one,” he answers, truthfully, “Hm…”

There’s plenty to say, but very little that he _can_. Maybe something from the future- with omitting parts of it that would belie its origin.

“I fought a knight once,” he begins, “In all black armour. He wore a mask, with horns. He roamed the land looking for worthy opponent.”

In this moment, he remembers how bad he is at telling stories. It is easier (perhaps even the easiest) to talk to Dimitri out of everyone here, but his nature is still that of someone who speaks little. Telling a story is not his forte.

Still, Dimitri offered him an out, and he’s going to take it.

“A black knight?” Dimitri echoes, finishing his stew and putting it aside to lean forward, “You won, I take it?”

Byleth nods, thinking of how to continue. He thinks of the scythe- can’t mention that, it’s too distinctive if Jeritza does show up this time around- and the cursed magic surrounding him. The poison, the fierce counterattacks. No. Oh, there was how-

“It was tough,” Byleth continues, “He liked to kill. It didn’t matter who.”

The murderous intent so clear that Byleth can still feel it chilling the back of his neck, even now.

“He doesn’t hurt anyone anymore,” he concludes.

Dimitri is smiling at him, their previous conversation thankfully forgotten.

“You are like a hero of legend,” Dimitri says, with quiet awe.

Byleth feels his chest squeeze; he averts his eyes, flustered by the needless compliment.

This is strange, he thinks, he definitely wasn’t this complimentary before. Was he?

“Hardly,” he mumbles, “I’m just me.”

Dimitri shakes his head, but says no more.

Their silence feels better now. They sit there in each other’s quiet company as the people around them move, as the crowd slowly thins out. After some time passes, Dimitri silently pushes his bowls towards Byleth, who immediately finishes what was left of both dishes.

He can feel Dimitri’s eyes on him- he’s hopeful he’s not being judged. In his last life (and that is still strange to think- and even more alarmingly, growing less strange by the hour) Dimitri had complimented him on the vigour of his appetite many times.

With their food and drink finished (and empty bowls swiftly scooped by the cooks who flit past clearing the tables) a wave of exhaustion washes over Byleth, so strong that he nearly keels over where he’s sat.

He doesn’t even notice Dimitri stand up, cross around to him, and put a hand on his shoulder. He startles at the touch.

“Let me walk to you to your quarters,” Dimitri says. It’s not a question, but a statement.

Byleth is in absolutely no position to protest, so he doesn’t, simply mumbling an acknowledgement and standing up.

As he does stand, he feels another set of his eyes on him. He has the distinct feeling that’s his father watching him. Or perhaps more accurately, watching Dimitri.

He obediently follows the prince out of the dining hall and is shocked to find that the sun has almost finished setting. The monastery is cast in blue, with the edge of the orange sun retreating with every minute passed.

They walk up the garden path and loop around to the commoner’s quarters.

“I’m sorry to steal your time like this,” Dimitri says, sudden and apologetic, “You may think me quite mad for saying this, but…”

They come to a stop outside Byleth’s quarters, and Dimitri looks away, clearly embarrassed.

“I almost feel as if I know you.”

He laughs, his posture betraying his tension.

“Look at me, saying such a thing to a complete stranger-”

“No,” Byleth says, immediately turning around to face him, trying to hide the desperation he feels, “I feel it too.”

The look of gratitude that he gets in return is enough that he can put his remaining fears to rest- at least for tonight. There will be time for questions and time for answers. There will be time to plan a better future than the one he has seen unfurl before. There will be time. They are still here. Everyone is still here.

I’ll protect you; he thinks passionately, I’ll protect you this time, I swear it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Byleth says. Dimitri dips into a formal bow.

“Sleep well,” he replies, “Professor.”

There’s weight in the way which he says it, but Byleth finds he is far too tired to really think about what it means. He closes the door behind him, shrugs out of his cape, out of meagre armour and shirt, throws his boots off, and collapses onto his bed.

Unfortunately, his sleep is not dreamless. His mind reaches, blindly, and memories dance behind his sleeping eyes.

_Imperial Year 1186. 30th of the Great Tree Moon. Night._

Rain fills the air like flies on a carcass, crowding Byleth’s vision as he trudges restlessly around the perimeter of the monastery. He does not know if it is instinct or fortune that draws him closer as he hears the tell-tale clink of a horse being fitted with armour. He knows; he knows before he even gets there who it is and what they are doing. And yet he cannot help but ask, a hard and desperate edge to his voice:

“Where are you going?”

A low rumble of thunder thrums through the ground. Drenched and hulking, Dimitri does not pause as he buckles his stead with armour not cleaned from the earlier fight. Rain trickles down, rust coloured water, bleeding. He can smell the iron.

“It does not concern you,” he says, his voice low and neutral. Dimitri isn’t looking at him. He turns his head in Byleth’s direction, but his gaze is downcast. He sounds less angry, now. He sounds defeated, and that scares Byleth even more.

“It does,” he replies, shaking his head.

“Do not try to stop me,” Dimitri says plainly. Despite the sadness, and pointed lack of hatred, his voice remains hard and unyielding. The gulf of time this and the younger Dimitri feels so vast. So does the space between them.

Swallowing thickly, Byleth comes closer. It doesn’t matter that Dimitri’s shoulders twitch in warning as Byleth walks up to him and puts a hand on his horse’s flank.

“You’re going to Enbarr, aren’t you?” Byleth says. It’s not a question, and his usually neutral voice is wavering slightly. He is so tired, so bone tired, and so full of grief that he feels like he’s breaking in two.

Dimitri steps away from his horse, putting distance between him and Byleth.

His whole face is hidden by the shadow of night, the film of rain, and his hair; unruly and plastered to his forehead.

“Get out of my way.”

Byleth steps closer once again, and Dimitri doesn’t step back. This whole time, his energy has been akin to nervous animal, primed to flee or fight; and all this time, Byleth had thought Dimitri had reached his breaking point and shattered. Now, he thinks, this is the true break point. He is not anxious, he is broken. Defeated, miserable. He isn’t moving, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he cannot.

This mission is suicide.

“Do you really think this will appease the dead? Or do you just want to die that badly?” Byleth says, his voice strong in the rain, as it pelts down the roof, down the bricks, down the two men facing off in the dead of night.

“Silence!” Dimitri demands, finally turning his single eye to Byleth. His gaze is cutting, fierce, but Byleth is at his breaking point too, and he doesn’t back down. “The dead’s burdens fall to those left behind. I have done too much- I must continue down this path, to the end.”

He scoffs.

“No matter how bitter,” he adds, nastily, “And how much you beg. It is too late to stop.”

Byleth shakes his head. He blinks rain from his eyes as it clings to his lashes.

“You’re wrong,” he says, simply.

Dimitri’s huff of breath is nearly a snarl.

“No,” he says, “Those who died with lingering regret… they will not loose their hold on me so easily. They cannot wish for a thing. I am the only one left who can fulfil their wishes.”

His breath is staggered. Almost whimpers.

“If you are so smart, professor, tell me this. I have lived only to avenge the fallen. Even at the academy, I only wished for my revenge. And then-“

His gaze does not waver.

“I met you,” he says, his voice so quiet, “The only person outside of it all, who I-“

He looks away. He sounds weary, as exhausted as he looks, as exhausted as Byleth feels.

“When you fell, I spent three days looking for you,” he says, his voice weary, achingly so, “I thought that there was no way I could lose you so abruptly. That you would come back, like you did before, stronger this time.”

His laugh is a sad thing.

“You’d scold me for worrying,” he says. “But no. No matter how long I waited, you were dead. Another person for me to avenge.”

“Dimitri,” Byleth says, “I didn’t ask for that.”

Dimitri takes one more step forward and the gap between them disappears.

“How can I silence their pleas? Tell me, if you know.”

Byleth looks at him.

“You have to live,” he says, voice soft, “You’ve suffered enough. You must forgive yourself for everything that’s happened to you.”

Dimitri exhales, his gaze lowering. His shoulders too, his whole demeanour laid low. The rain pours, soaking the furs of his cape. His stead nickers behind them.

“How can I live,” he says, honestly and simply, “When it hurts so much?”

Rain clings to his face. His breath clouds in front of him. The sorrow pours from him in waves, years of grief, years of internalising his pain. All in the name of this.

“I’m nothing,” Dimitri says, “I am a monster wearing human skin, not fit to survive. Not fit to be anything.”

“You’re worthy,” Byleth counters, “You have to live for what you believe in.”

Dimitri’s eye is blank, nothing but sadness beneath. He shakes his head slowly, like it takes a gargantuan effort.

“I’m broken,” he says, unwavering, “My hands are stained red- there’s too much blood on them now.”

“We all have hands stained red,” Byleth says, “But you won’t be alone, ever again.”

Dimitri moves at that- lifts his head with a dark look in his eye.

“You can’t promise that,” he rumbles, “I won’t place my burdens on you, or anyone else.”

“It’s not a burden to help someone you love!” Byleth snaps, sinking both hands into Dimitri’s furs to yank him closer, “You’re breaking everyone’s hearts-“

He stops yelling as quickly as he started, knowing that tears are filling his eyes- the foreign, unwanted things. They’re hidden by the downpour, but from the look Dimitri gives him, he can still tell.

“If you’re going to Enbarr then I’m coming too,” Byleth says, with an air of finality.

A spark of lightning in the distance casts the monastery, for a brief moment, in blue-white light. The thunder rumbles, it’s constant companion. Lights dance in the sky, stark against the velvet black of night.

Byleth releases Dimitri’s cape, and they stand in the rain.

“Do I really have the right to live for myself?” Dimitri asks, his voice barely above a whisper, breaking. It’s a plea, a desperate one.

Byleth offers his hand, just as he had at the monastery’s lonely anniversary.

Dimitri takes in a deep, shuddering breath- and takes Byleth’s hand in his own.

The world shifts, in that moment, to a better future.

“Have your hands always been so warm?” he murmurs, almost to himself.

_21st of the Great Tree Moon. Morning._

Byleth awakes from his dream-addled-memory with tears on his face. His whole body feels so heavy.

“Professor,” Sothis says, soft but insistent, “It is time to wake.”

He grunts in response, wiping his face with the back of his hand. With effort, he pushes himself up until he’s sat up. Sothis sits next to him, cross legged; she brushes her hands over his hair, messing it up, before she lounges across his lap like a housecat.

“Hng,” he manages, blinking sleepily.

Right. He’s in the past. He’s going to choose who to teach later this morning. But before that.

“Get up,” he mumbles.

Sothis exclaims in wordless shock.

“How dare you!” she shrieks, as Byleth winces, getting up on aching feet to retrieve his diary from where it’s been left on his desk.

Well, it’s not his diary yet. It’s empty right now, but he used to keep all his notes in it. This time, it’s even more vital.

Sothis continues to throw her tantrum as he grabs himself a quill and a pot of ink, lowering himself into the desk chair and beginning to fill in his diary.

He buckles down and writes down all his thoughts, with Sothis critiquing them mercilessly. He writes, and rewrites, and writes some more, until his hand cramps.

He grabs a handful of jerky from his backpack and crams it into his mouth before continuing.

In the end, he manages to narrow it down to two things.

_ Goal number one. _

_Expose Those Who Slither in the Dark for their interference in past, present, and future events._

_Leads: Edelgard and Lysithea’s crest experimentation, the Tragedy of Duscur, replacing Monika, Tomas, Cornelia, and Lord Arundel._

_ Goal number two. _

_Counter the Flame Emperor._

_Events: Lord Lonato’s rebellion, the Rite of Rebirth attack, Flayn’s kidnapping, the attack on Remire, the infiltration of the monastery by Imperial Forces, the attack on the Holy Tomb._

He sighs, putting down his quill. He hasn’t written down various other things, like his hope to change Edelgard’s mind on the necessity of a unifying war; helping the students work through their various traumas; protecting Jeralt from Kronya; and potentially telling Rhea, Seteth, and/or Flayn about his knowledge of the future.

All of this and he’s not even been awake for an hour.

“Best get going,” Sothis chimes, “You don’t want to be late, do you?”

“Late?” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes, “Mmh.”

Slapping himself lightly on both cheeks, he washes his face with a damp cloth, pulls his clothes on, stretches his arms over his head, and pushes the door open.

He’s in front of Rhea before he even realises where his feet are taking him. Thank the goddess for muscle memory.

“You’re welcome,” Sothis says in his mind. He resists the urge to roll his eyes, lest Rhea or Seteth think he’s slighting them.

“Since you are new here, we have decided to allow you first pick,” Hanneman says, “Manuela and I will take charge of the remaining two houses.”  
  


“Thank you for your generosity,” Byleth says, inclining his head. He doesn’t skip a beat: “I wish to teach the Blue Lions.”

Hanneman and Seteth twitch slightly, surprised at how quickly he answered.

“That was swift,” Rhea notes, unreadable as ever, “The will of the goddess must have spoken through you.”

Manuela is looking at him with her cat-smile again and he has a terrible feeling that she too may have seen him dining with Dimitri. She holds her tongue in front of Rhea, which Byleth is forever grateful for, because he really, really doesn’t want to explain it. Even if there’s nothing strange about it. And there isn’t. Nothing is strange about it.

Not on Dimitri’s end, anyway.

“She did,” Byleth replies, feeling Sothis snicker encouragingly in the back of his mind, “It is an honour to lead such promising young people.”

Seteth is staring a hole in him, but it’s not with distrust, but shock.

“I wonder what he thinks of you reading his mind like that,” Sothis notes.

It’s just a little too tempting to steal people’s words. He’ll have to be more careful with that.

Just like before, Flayn walks in on their meeting, to Seteth’s mild dismay.

He’s glad to see her too; there is little to dislike about her. Plus, this time he can make sure she doesn’t even get kidnapped. Or if she does, he will rescue her within the hour.

“No Death Knight for you,” Sothis comments, appearing and floating over to Flayn, her eyes gentle, “Sweet girl.”

Byleth bows, and leaves, and very much makes an effort to avoid Manuela’s prying eyes as he does.

The Lions are crowded around gossiping and speculating when Byleth walks in. Their eyes do not immediately snap up, so engrossed are they. No- Dimitri meets his eyes first, and they share a look which fills Byleth with warmth and a nice dose of confidence. Dimitri gives him the smallest nod.

Last time he’d been… well, he wasn’t upset about having to teach, it was intriguing, but intriguing was all. It had ended up being his calling, in the end, but it took a lot of blood, sweat, and tears to get there. Not to mention a lot of miserably awkward conversations, and terrible lectures.

He’s a lot better prepared this time. Not only physically- he has paper, quills, several textbooks, and his own diary- but mentally- he knows everyone here down to their minutiae. And he knows himself a lot better too.

“Good morning,” Byleth says, as the Lion’s eyes snap up, “You met me yesterday but…”

He trails off, the hint of a smile on his lips, letting them get it. Three, two, one-

“You’re the new professor?!” Annette splutters, getting there before anyone else can. Her eyes are comically wide, and she even brings both hands to her face- “No! I was speaking to you so casually!”

She dips into a hasty and far too formal bow, visibly distressed.

“I am so sorry- I had no idea!”

The rest of the Lions turn around to face him, various levels of shock on their faces.

“I don’t mind,” Byleth answers, “I would rather you treat me as a friend.”

He tilts his head ponderously.

“At least, a potential one,” he adds, mildly.

Annette rights herself and looks at him cautiously, like his words are a trap.

“You say that,” she says, slowly, “But, I don’t know. It feels… rude.”

“We’re already bullying our future king,” Sylvain interjects, “Does it matter if we do that with our professor?”

“Sylvain,” Dimitri says, exasperated but fond.

“It’s true,” Sylvain teases, bumping Dimitri with his elbow.

“It isn’t rude,” Byleth supplies, again.

“We do wish to show you due respect,” Dimitri says, almost demure.

“Funny that,” Sothis notes, shaking her head, “He was a lot more than just respectful yesterday.”

“What does that even mean?” Byleth shoots back internally, then, externally, “You don’t have to force yourself if it’s too difficult. Whatever is most comfortable.”

Ingrid nods.

“Understood,” she says, “I’m not sure I can manage not addressing you properly. I don’t wish to learn any bad habits.”

Sylvain smiles, wryly, taking the opportunity to step forward and flourish his hand into a bow. Byleth wonders for a moment if he’s going to take his hand and kiss it. He doesn’t do that, fortunately.

“Such benevolence in the face of our varied needs is a sight to behold,” he proclaims, “I don’t suppose you would care to join me to discuss education and slash or marriage?”

Byleth looks at him, outwardly deadpan as ever but inwardly fond of his antics.

“I’m flattered,” Byleth says, dryly, “But can you take it as well as you dish it out?”

Sylvain looks rather like a deer in a hunter’s lamplight. Felix blinks, and Ingrid lets out a strangled laugh. Dimitri covers his mouth to hide his amusement.

To his credit, Sylvain recovers quickly.

“Why don’t we find out?” he coos, raising his eyebrows.

“Control yourself,” Felix mutters, giving Sylvain a swift kick to the shin. There’s a lack of bite to his words and his actions, one that Byleth notes with surprise. From what he remembers, Felix seemed to be genuinely angered by Sylvain’s actions in the past.

“It is curious,” Sothis agrees, floating over to their desk behind the students and gleefully sitting on it, swinging her feet.

Felix’s eyes are on him now.

“You said we would spar,” he states.

“I did,” Byleth agrees, then to everyone, “If everyone is ready, I’ll start right away.”

He blinks and then holds up a hand.

“I haven’t introduced myself,” he mutters, pursuing his lips, “Right.”

He inhales and stands up a little straighter.

“My name is Byleth Eisner, I’m a mercenary, my father is the former Captain of the Knights of Seiros. I’m your professor.”

He scratches the back of his neck.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance!” Mercedes chimes.

“If you’re going to spar with Felix, may I watch you?” Ashe asks.

“Oh no,” Byleth says, as Felix frowns, “You’re all sparring with me.”

A general rumble of agreement follows.

“Me first,” Felix says, sullenly. Byleth doesn’t comment further, he simply turns around to go to the training grounds. The Lions follow obediently, their voices hushed as they continue to speculate.

“Dimitri,” Ingrid says, “You don’t seem surprised at all.”

“Ah,” Dimitri says. “Professor, may I?”

“Go ahead,” Byleth says, not even needing to look behind him. He shuffles the papers under his arm to stop them from slipping.

“I already knew,” Dimitri says, brightly. There’s a note of pride in his voice, and when Byleth does glance around, his chin is lifted, his eyes sparkling brightly.

There is an immediate cry of protest which brings a smile to Byleth’s lips, one he can’t stop. He catches Annette call Dimitri a traitor for not warning her, Sylvain say that he was holding out on them, and then it’s lost in their interlocking chatter. This is good. He needs them to get that immediate tension out.

He's going to give them quite the test, after all.


	6. A RINGING BELL

If such a thing is possible, the training grounds are even more familiar to Byleth than the rest of the monastery. He’s spent more hours here than he could possibly count; practising his own skills, tutoring his students, attending practicals, competitions, or even using it as a quiet place to talk the students one on one. Breathing in the smell of sun-warmed stone, he feels surprisingly at ease.

There’s no doubt that to hold a weapon runs in his blood. It’s part and parcel of being a mercenary, he supposes. Swords have always been his strongest weapon, but he can say with confidence that he can use lances, axes, bows, and gauntlets as well. Time has also given him both black and white magic. He doesn’t want to extol his own virtues, but he has a great deal of martial skill. It’s unfair, really, on the students.

But he does have an idea. One that seems a little overzealous at first glance, and that could ultimately backfire. However, the rewards if he can get his point across will certainly make for a good first day.

Might as well go for it.

He shrugs off his cape, dropping his books and papers on the bench nearby. He adjusts the gauntlets on his forearms, pushes his hair out of his face, and turns to face his students.

“I want all of you to come at me at once,” he says.

For a moment, no one says anything. They all just stare.

“You must be joking,” Felix says, then a little angrier, “Do you really think we’re that weak?”

“Not at all,” Byleth says, truthfully.

Leaving them confused (and a little annoyed), he walks a few paces away and picks up a practice sword. He tosses it between his hands a few times, and stands casually, sword drawn along his arm.

He misses the Sword of the Creator.

“We could always go and get it,” Sothis says, in his mind. “We know where it lies, after all.”

It’s a tempting thought, but one which he has to put aside for now.

The Lions are beginning to realise he wasn’t joking- and cautiously obey, picking out their own wooden weapons.

Ashe fidgets nervously with his bow. Felix is looking at him like he can skin him with a stare alone; both Ingrid and Sylvain are looking at him with a look he knows means something along the lines of:

“Is this guy for real?”

Which is a fair assessment, really.

Annette and Mercedes are together, both unsure. Dedue looks to Dimitri, and Dimitri is looking at Byleth.

He’s waiting. He knows this isn’t a joke, but by the looks of it, hasn’t worked out his angle yet.

Good. He’ll have to find out.

“If a strike would have been deadly, then you’re out. Are you ready?” Byleth asks, knowing that they aren’t.

He stretches out his free hand-

“Let the lesson begin,” he says, voice steady. “Face me!”  
  


They do.

As he expected, Felix moves first, eager to fight and equally eager to put him in his place. Even an inexperienced Felix isn’t a swordsman to sneeze at, so he steps out of the way of his first jab and parries the second, sliding the wooden blades together.

He presses forward- Byleth yields the ground to spin his sword around, ready to bring the blunt wooden tip to the back of Felix’s neck. Luckily for Felix’s ego, Sylvain jumps in after him, and Byleth is forced to swing it back around to block the thrust of his lance.

Long reach. Bad close up. He brings his strength against the length of the wooden lance, forcing Sylvain to compensate. His centre of balance moves to the right-

Byleth uses his other hand to catch the slam of Ingrid’s lance before it hits his shoulder. He kicks his leg out, forcing her back, and slams his shoulder and elbow into Sylvain until he lets out a shocked yelp and stumbles backwards.

Felix has regained himself and is on him again. Parry, parry, dodge. His crest flares, a visible thing that burns the air with divine power manifest.

That thing has been the death of many a man.

Byleth ducks just in time for Ashe’s arrow to thud against Felix’s torso.

“Sorry!” Ashe exclaims, “Oh gosh, I’m sorry!”

Felix grits his teeth.

Byleth dances around as Felix’s attacks grow- not necessarily desperate, but quicker. He’s moving too fast for Sylvain or Ingrid to take advantage of him taking all Byleth’s attention. The air tingles. Seeing an opening, he releases his sword from a high strike, catches it with his left, and locks it behind Felix’s. With a flourish of footwork, his wooden sword is against Felix’s throat.

To his (pleasant) surprise, Felix doesn’t look at him sourly but with a genuine look of interest and curiosity.

“Impressive,” he murmurs, disengaging to sit on the bench. “Very impressive.”

Sylvain gives Felix enough time to get out before he descends, this time with Ingrid, Dedue, and Dimitri.

Four on one? He can do that.

“Think before you act,” Byleth says, as the four circle him, “But act swiftly! Now!”

Dimitri takes that advice.

Future Dimitri was strong enough to punch through brick, even without his crest. The man was, in a word, ridiculously powerful. Even younger Dimitri is very strong, but Byleth has the distinct hunch he’s not going to attack with all his strength. At least, not right now.

Even if he did, Byleth is strong too. He didn’t spend his time teaching others and neglecting himself.

Dimitri’s breath of shock is a confirmation of that fact when Byleth doesn’t dodge his swing but meets it head on, sword against lance.

No time to enjoy the look on the prince’s face- he must jump away from a well-placed shot from Ashe, and another flash of magic from Annette.

Then Dedue advances on him.

He won’t be able to parry Dedue’s axe, wooden or not, so he just avoids it, parries the lance from Ingrid, slips past Sylvain’s blow. He dances around the four of them, agile and experienced, but very much on his toes.

Sylvain will be easiest. He’s too busy thinking to be in the fight.

He hounds Ingrid first though, who, despite her lack of experience, does an admirable job keeping up with him. Sylvain is on his left, coming to Ingrid’s aid, so when her fingers slip from her lance, Byleth snatches it, levelling his sword at her sternum and Ingrid’s lance at Sylvain’s face.

Annette whoops.

“Who are you cheering for?!” Sylvain laments, raising his hands in surrender.

Dedue comes for him first this time. What he knows is that Dedue is not quick on his feet, so he needs to force him to turn his back. Ashe’s arrow barely misses his arm as he dodges Dedue and Dimitri’s powerful blows.

They’re backing him towards Ashe, and they aren’t thinking about that fact.

He watches for a swing from Dedue that will allow him to be disarmed. One, two, three-

He smacks the wooden axe out of his hands, sword at his throat.

Dedue might be unreadable to most, but not to Byleth. He’s impressed. He nods. Byleth nods back.

Ashe must be aware he’s the next target- Dimitri, however, is very good at keeping Byleth’s attention. He’s got quite the reach, he’s fast, and he can weather blows. He’s always been the strongest fighter in the group.

(Byleth’s always been convinced he’s the strongest fighter in the entire academy, actually. He even had a fight with Manuela and Hanneman over it- after they had imbibed several flagons of beer.)

He’s not without his weaknesses though. Like Felix, Dimitri is overzealous. Neither know when to disengage from a fight.

No one breathes a word as Dimitri hammers blow after blow on Byleth, who continues to parry and dodge. He’s also moving around the attacks that Ashe and Annette are throwing at him- they’re being careful not to hit Dimitri, which he will have to commend and encourage.

Byleth’s mostly been defending. He wants to check in with their abilities after all, not smack them around. But that means they aren’t expecting an offensive.

So-

He switches to a more aggressive style and forces Dimitri to back off. The thud, thud, thud of wood on wood. It’s beginning to splinter, he’s sure, on both their ends. It takes a lot, and he barely manages to keep up his own perfect dance, away from the ranged attacks. It’s tiring Dimitri out, he’s forgetting his surroundings. Byleth moves them closer to Ashe.

Dimitri is sweating from the exertion of having to parry so much. Moving a huge lance so swiftly against a smaller weapon is difficult, but he’s still doing very well. He can hear the crunch of dirt from behind them. Annette is moving to Ashe’s side to back him up. The closer, the better their accuracy.

Dimitri weathers another blow-

Not well enough though.

When he fails to parry, Byleth disengages- and swings for Annette, stopping his sword just short of her nose.

“Eek!” she squeaks, raising her hands up, “You got me!”

Ashe jumps back and fires- Byleth cuts the arrow out of the air, to the awed gasp of the Lions, and he’s quicker than Dimitri, who’s turning around to grab his attention again. Byleth dives for Ashe, sword on his chest.

Ashe grins, looking sweaty but happy, and goes to the bench.

That leaves Dimitri.

Byleth is incredibly pleased to note his own exertion. Children or not, they’ve given him a run for his money with this stunt, and he couldn’t be happier. It must show in his eyes because Dimitri’s register surprise before he offers a demure smile.

This time, Dimitri doesn’t immediately dive for him. Interesting- and better.

When Byleth approaches, Dimitri swings his lance, his posture good, hands in the right places, ready to retaliate.

Sidestep, sidestep.

Almost playfully, the wooden weapons tap against one another as the two men circle each other in an ever-shrinking circle, almost as if fencing with mismatched weapons.

“Come on!” Ingrid shouts suddenly. Dimitri looks surprised by the encouragement, but he gets a look in his eye. A weapon art?

“Oh, that’s good!” Sothis chirps, appearing in a glimmer of light, watching from above with interest.

Byleth feigns non-comprehension, allowing Dimitri to get in range for a Tempest Lance. He edges them towards the side of the arena.

Maybe it’s overconfidence, or a desire to show off, but instead of getting out of the way, Byleth brings his sword closer and decides to counter with an art of his own.

They circle, passively, until Dimitri swings with a gale force of crackling air, and Byleth counters with hot air spilling over the simple wood of his blade in the form of a Wrath Strike. The two weapons hit one another with more force than would ever be necessary. Byleth knows from the way that their bending that Dimitri’s lance is going to snap under the strain, so he pulls his swing. Dimitri stumbles, the lance snaps, and as the splinters settle, Byleth’s wooden blade is an inch from Dimitri’s throat.

“Well done,” Byleth says, with what he hopes is encouragement.

Dimitri is looking at him with such a strange look in his eyes- he looks bewildered and amazed, heat on his cheeks.

Byleth puts the sword away and is surprised to find the class applauding. They get up and crowd around him, all talking at once.

“You really got me professor!” Sylvain says, “Guess you should take _me_ out to dinner.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes.

“Your reflexes are impressive,” she says, ignoring Sylvain, “It really is an entirely different experience fighting a mercenary.”

“You’re not like the knights,” Felix seconds, “You fight dirty.”

“Felix, that’s rude,” Annette scolds.

“No,” he says, “It’s better.”

“I can’t believe you parried my arrow,” Ashe gushes, “It was straight out of a book!”

“His Highness was correct,” Dedue says, “You are strong.”

“I couldn’t even hit you,” Annette laments, “Usually I’m pretty accurate too.”

A consensus of their typical accuracy versus their accuracy in this practice fight rolls through the group.

“Indeed,” Dimitri echoes. He’s standing behind Byleth, the only one not in their little crescent-shaped huddle. Byleth tilts his head back to meet Dimitri’s eyes.

He’s smiling. And it’s a real smile. Not bearing of teeth, not something made to relax other people. In this moment, at least, he seems happy.

Byleth can’t smile back on command. The physical expression of emotion is such a fickle thing- he remembers, in the future (or is it the past?) Dimitri echoed the same sentiment- but he hopes he can convey his pride through his eyes.

“You all impressed me,” Byleth says- the Lions hush as he speaks- “I asked you all to attack at once for a reason.”

He nods towards the benches, leading the group to sit down. They grab towels and water, relaxing in their seats as Byleth stands.

“To give you an idea of action and thought,” Byleth explains, “That’s the first thing I want to teach you.”

He holds his hands in front of him.

“I want you to do both, instead of one or the other,” he explains, raising one hand, palm up-“If you just think, your opponent has time to act, and you are at a disadvantage that can get you or someone close to you killed.”

He lowers that hand and raises the other in the same fashion- “If you just act, you are not considering the circumstances, and may take a rash action, which can get you or someone close to you killed.”

He lowers both hands.

“If you think and act as one, then you are not forfeiting precious time, and you can adapt to changing circumstances.”

He holds his hands behind him, looking up at the Lions and finding that they’ve taken the initiative to grab the paper and quills he brought with him. He continues, constantly glad for the increased experience of this second chance.

“You must consider your positioning, your capabilities, your weaknesses, your allies, the terrain, reinforcements,” he lists, “Then the same for your enemies.”

Noticing the Lions balking, he pauses.

“I realise this is a lot,” he says, with a slight nod, “ But it can be boiled down to tells. If an enemy is slow, then fast attacks will be best. If they are positioned on high ground, perhaps you can push them from it. If an enemy archer is in the forest, is there a way to entirely avoid them?”

“I do not expect you to learn this overnight,” Byleth says, “It comes from experience.”

He looks at the Lions, gaze drifting over every individual. Every one of them, a precious life who has already seen too much violence. Yet here is, teaching them yet more.

“The ultimate asset to your combat is to consider your allies. What you can do as an individual, no matter how strong, is dwarfed by that of a team.”

He shrugs.

“That’s why I had you attack me as one,” he concludes.

“Uh, question?” Annette offers, raising her hand. “The tells, can you explain those? Oh, and um, how do we work as a team?”

“I’ll be going through that for the next month,” Byleth says, not unkindly, “But I can give a quick crash course if it helps?”

Annette nods eagerly- joined by Ingrid, and a small nod from Felix.

“Let’s see… if you were to attack a target as a team, you would want Ashe and Annette to attack first.”

Ashe and Annette trade looks with one another at their names, nodding with almost comical intensity as they write down Byleth’s words.

“They would need to be in the closest safe position to a target, so they can put pressure on an enemy without being flanked.”

He looks at Mercedes- who gives him a little wave when he does.

“Mercedes, you need to stay in a similar position. If you want to learn offensive magic then you could engage in a ranged attack, but predominantly you want to be able to see who you need to heal without being in range of attack,” he explains.

She nods, writing his words down.

Byleth taps his bottom lip, looking up as he thinks.

“Depending on the situation, either Ingrid, Sylvain, or both could flank the enemy to push them out of position or exert pressure on their ranged soldiers.”

Ingrid nods, and he can see the gears turning in her mind. Sylvain too- he doesn’t even crack any flirtatious jokes because he’s thinking about the logistics too.

“Dedue would be best suited to draw aggression since he can deal and survive high amounts of damage- ah, not to mention the intimidation factor.”

Dimitri nudges Dedue, who is watching Byleth with a look of interested concentration. Maybe other people would find that intimidating too- but Byleth doesn’t.

I’ll protect you too, he thinks fiercely, meeting Dedue’s eyes.

He doesn’t let himself think about that anymore because it’s a maelstrom of its own.

(He missed Dedue when he was gone-)

“Obviously,” Byleth says, clearing his throat and his mind, “that leaves Dimitri and Felix.”

Felix scowls at that. Dimitri notices it, and though he does well not to let his displeasure show, Byleth knows that it affects him. It’s a difficult thing, because Felix was- and is- right. He just went about it the wrong way. Maybe he’ll intervene in their friendship and see if he can meddle his way into fixing it.

“Both of you are very adept,” Byleth says, “Your main weakness is an opponent who can outmanoeuvre you, so if those opponents are otherwise engaged-

He nods up at Ingrid and Sylvain.

“-Being flanked, dealing with flankers, or in the thick of the fight-“

He looks back at Felix, who nods to show he’s listening, and Dimitri, who no one could claim isn’t listening with every ounce of dedication in his very being.

“-Then both of you can, either individually or as a unit, surgically cut through a battlefield. Take out the commander, perhaps. Or if there’s a magic user with a wide range who Ashe cannot reach, you could reach and eliminate them before they can retaliate.”

He nods to himself in conclusion.

“That’s a very general setup,” he adds, waving one hand, “But a general setup is flexible for a variety of unusual scenarios.”

He looks at the Lions, who are all staring at him like he’s either grown a third head, or just told them some divine revelation.

It’s all basic tactical stuff, he thinks to himself.

“You got all that from… just now?” Ashe says, incredulous.

Ah. Well, no. He can feel Sothis looking at him, ready to tease him.

“Yeah, that’s… I mean, it sounds like you’re right the more I think about it, but wow,” Sylvain echoes, “You must be a pretty elite mercenary, huh?”

Mumbled affirmations- compliments that Byleth doesn’t think he deserves in the slightest.

“Something like that,” Byleth says, neutrally. “These are things you learn from experience. Experience that I can pass onto you.”

He rolls his shoulders.

“Now, I’m going to into using your environment first, and then there will be time for one on one tutoring. The first thing you must always do is—"

_21st of the Great Tree Moon, Evening._

The rest of the day passes much the same: Byleth explaining principles of warfare learnt from experience (dressed down as not to entirely intimidate or give away his secret) and fielding questions from eager Lions. All the while, he can feel them watching him with looks of awe and admiration- and it gives him confidence every time he wonders if he’s misspoken.

In the end, his first day is nearly flawless. All the Lions have learnt something, all of them have a task that they’ve picked out themselves, and all of them seem very excited to show that they can achieve their goals.

Which brings Byleth to his own goals.

“Father?” Byleth says, knocking on Jeralt’s open door.

“Hey kiddo,” Jeralt says, a little bemused, “Don’t bother knocking. Just come in.”

Byleth does so, and sits on the sofa, physically and mentally drained.

“When did you learn manners?” Jeralt says mildly.

Byleth closes his eyes and listens to the scratch of quill on paper as Jeralt writes.

“From you,” Byleth counters.

Jeralt chuckles.

“I don’t think so,” he says.

Byleth feels sleep’s grip begin to curl around him and he begrudgingly pushes it away, sitting up.

“I want to tell you more,” he says. The scratch of Jeralt’s writing pauses.

“Oh?” he offers.

“About the future,” Byleth explains. Jeralt puts down his quill and gets up to join Byleth on the sofa.

“Okay,” he says, simply, “I’m here.”

Byleth licks his lips, nervous. The idea of explaining the future feels almost like putting his hand on an open flame; it is a pain that his mind takes a few moments to register. And thus, it shies away, unwilling to do.

“Do you have any alcohol?” Byleth asks, weakly.

“Ah, yeah,” Jeralt says, like Byleth asked him if the sky is blue, “You know I do.”

He hands Byleth his flask.

“Just don’t drink it all at once,” Jeralt warns, “I know you inherited my tolerance, but that stuff will turn your blood into oil.”

Byleth snorts, taking a swig.

It’s disgusting, but the warmth that travels down his throat and into his chest is a good distraction.

He’s drunk half of the flask before he’s done explaining. It takes quite a while- even if he was lost in the darkness for most of the war, there’s still plenty to explain. He explains everything, from the events leading up to the war, Jeralt’s own death, Those Who Slither in the Dark, Edelgard, Dimitri, Claude, the Lions, Gronder Field, the Hegemon. He explains that they’d finally tracked down Those Who Slither in the Dark when Thales had ambushed them, having anticipated their plan, and attacked them whilst they were in Enbarr. That the last thing he saw was Dimitri and Claude looking at him with horror on their faces as darkness overcame everything and everyone.

When he’s done, he feels hollow, and about twenty years older.

“Oh,” he mutters, “There’s another thing.”

Jeralt is silent, contemplative. He raises an eyebrow.

“M… Mother was… a vessel for the goddess,” he says, pained. “I don’t know if you knew that.”

The look on Jeralt’s face- confusion, and a very old anger- says he did not.

“She had the Crest Stone of the Creator in her chest because she was meant to bring her back to Fódlun,” he explains, “It didn’t work.”

Jeralt is looking at him intensely, enough that he almost feels guilty. He doesn’t want to make his father suffer, or feel grief, or pain. But he does deserve to know the truth.

“When I was stillborn, she asked Rhea to save me, so Rhea put the stone in my chest. You know that my heart doesn’t beat?” he says, and Jeralt nods slightly, “The stone is what keeps me alive.”

He bites his lip.

“And… it did work,” he adds, quietly.

Jeralt’s brow furrows, and then a dawning look of realisation.

“When you were little,” he says, slowly, “You used to stare at nothing. It scared me. I thought maybe something was wrong with you. But you were seeing something, weren’t you?”

The memory is incredibly fuzzy, but Sothis seizes upon it, appearing in the room, her eyes wide.

“Yes,” he says, at the same time as Sothis, “Sothis and I are one.”

“Does Rhea know?” Jeralt asks, immediately.

Byleth shakes his head.

“No,” he says, “I never got the chance to tell her. And this time… I don’t know if I want to.”

“I wouldn’t,” Jeralt warns.

Byleth frowns a little.

“I don’t think she’s evil,” he says.

“Nor do I,” Jeralt agrees, “But you just told me that she… what, created Sitri?”

Byleth purses his lips, eyes downcast.

“I don’t want to know what she’d do to you if she knew,” he says, “Maybe I’m a pessimist. But I won’t let her anywhere near you.”

“Father,” Byleth says, fondly.

“Son,” Jeralt replies, seriously.

They sit there. After a moment, Jeralt retrieves his flask from Byleth’s hands.

“You believe me,” Byleth says, questioningly.

Jeralt nods.

“That’s a lot of detail for a lie,” he says, “I admit, it’s a hell of a lot to take in.”

Byleth leans his head back. Egged on by liquor, he looks at Jeralt.

“Why didn’t you tell me about her?” he asks.

Jeralt stiffens visibly.

The atmosphere in the room shifts, and Byleth isn’t sure if he likes it. He considers taking back his question, but when Jeralt looks at him, he’s pinned in place.

“Because it hurt,” Jeralt says, “I know it’s not a good answer. Or even a fair one. But I loved your mother so much…”

He trails off, closing his eyes as pain’s cruel spectre creeps over him.

“When I lost her, the only reason I kept going was you,” he says, “Other than that, I didn’t have a reason to live.”

He uncorks the flask again to drink it himself.

“I lost the love of my life,” he murmurs, “You’re right, though. I should have talked about her. I don’t know-“

He rubs a hand over his face.

“I thought if I didn’t then the wound would heal,” he admits, “But it never did.”

Byleth looks up at the ceiling and wills his own tears away.

“Yeah,” he croaks. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Jeralt asks.

It’s a simple question, deceptively so. But Byleth finds the answer sticks in his throat, in years of memories, in agony and growth- he finds that cannot speak the words.

“I won’t pry,” Jeralt says, at Byleth’s silence.

He can feel Sothis’ form overlaid in the physical world, perching on the back of the sofa with her legs dangling over his shoulders.

“The lion,” she murmurs, when Byleth cannot. “I know. I know.”

He can hear Jeralt move closer and pull him into a sidelong hug. Weakly, he grasps a handful of his father’s furred coat, his breath coming out in a heave.

“Take heart,” Sothis continues, as he feels her ghostly hands cover his eyes, “All is not lost.”

She slides down into the empty space next to him and leans her cheek against the back of his head.

“He is still here,” she murmurs, pressing her forehead against him, “As are we.”

Byleth presses his face into Jeralt’s coat- but even the tickle of the fur there overwhelms him with sorrow.

“I didn’t say it,” he croaks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jeralt makes a comforting noise, rubbing his back.

“Whoever they were,” he answers, “I’m sure they knew.”

With that sorrow comes a sudden surge of strength, fierce in its nature. Byleth grits his teeth. His tears are beginning to halt now.

His grip on Jeralt’s furs tighten exponentially, and they begin to tear away from the fabric.

“Everything I’m going to do,” Byleth rasps, “I’m doing it for him. I won’t let what happened happen again. No matter what I must do, I won’t-“

“I know,” Jeralt cuts him off, soothingly, “Easy.”

Byleth lets go of his father, who reluctantly allows him to move back.

“Can you use your connections to look for the- people I told you about?” he asks, viciously wiping a hand over his eyes. The tears need to stop, he thinks viciously, angry at his own anger.

There’s no time for anger or sorrow. There’s too much to be done.

Jeralt nods.

“I can,” he says, “So, you said that bandit leader was… hired by the Flame Emperor?”

Byleth nods back.

“Sure,” Jeralt muses, “Leave it to me, kid. Just take care of yourself. We’ll work everything out together.”

After he bids farewell to his father, he finds himself pacing. Pacing the monastery perimeter, pacing the halls, pacing until his feet lead him to the door to the Holy Mausoleum.

“Did you bring me here?” he asks, as Sothis presses a hand against the grand doors.

“Huh? Do you think me some dog pulling at a leash?” she snaps, “No, foolish one. You came here of your own volition.”

It doesn’t feel like it.

He feels so conflicted. The ache of today’s lesson is profound indeed. His legs in particular hurt like hell. His arms are sore, and his mind feels as if it has melted. But-

“I don’t want to sleep,” he murmurs.

Behind his eyes, he sees them older. Some of them dead, some of them sleeping. But who can tell between the two, in the end?

Sothis looks over her shoulder at him sympathetically.

“No,” she agrees, “I expect not. Be that as it may, it is late. We must teach the children again in the morn.”

Even as she speaks, her hand is still splayed out on the door, longingly.

They both stand there, in the quiet of the night, waiting.

“Does the sword sing to you?”

Byleth blinks.

“It is made from me,” she says, sounding distant, “I sang to Seiros. Does the sword sing to you?”

Byleth frowns, taking a step closer to her. He puts his hands on her shoulders as her own goes limp, arm sliding back to her side.

“Sothis,” he says, kindly.

“Do not Sothis me,” she says, mildly. “It is a crime one thousand years past. All those who perpetrated it are gone.”

Despite her even tone, he can feel her expression. Distraught.

“Then why are we so angry?” he asks.

Her head droops.

“I do not know,” she murmurs, “I almost wish I had not remembered anything.”

Taking a deep breath, Byleth pushes the doors to the Holy Mausoleum open.

Sothis looks at him with her eyes wide- but she says nothing. When he walks forward, she follows at his side, the two descending the stairs into the tomb below.

“For every year I slept,” Sothis says, her feet making no sound on the stone, “I let tragedy befall my people. For every year I slept, war raged. I feel so powerless. I am the beginning, and yet I cannot turn it all back.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Byleth stops and looks at her.

“Would you, if you could?” he asks.

She looks at him. For a moment, he remembers who she is- a goddess, alien and divine. A being from another world, unlike everyone else, so very apart. But that’s all wrong.

“No,” she murmurs, “And that scares me more than anything else ever could.”

Byleth walks further into the tomb. He supposes it should be eerie, but it feels calm. Peaceful. There is an aura about this place, an ancient one which feels him with nostalgia. He feels the sadness pulling at him from the inside, but it’s distant. Like an echo from the mouth of a cave, he’s hearing only part of the melody.

He takes slow, ponderous steps at first. Leisurely. He takes it in, the immense room, undisturbed for centuries. However, before he knows what he’s doing, he’s walking faster. Jogging, and then sprinting. He’s being pulled, tugged at. As if some external force is urging him on, hot on his heels.

By the time he gets to the (supposed) tomb of Seiros, he’s panting, sweat dripping down his brow. The panic gripping him feels foreign and wicked as he scrambles at the lid. His hands simply slide off uselessly until Sothis comes up to him, floating above. As she holds out a hand, it opens without resistance.

“It’s still here,” Byleth says, dumbfounded.

He swallows the knot in his throat. Sothis floats down next to him, looking up at him with confusion.

“Of course it is still here,” she answers, “What made you think otherwise?”

The sword sits where a body would be. The imagery is not lost on him for a moment, but his soul makes him move; he reaches his hand into the coffin and takes it back.

It is a comfort he did not realise he missed to severely. The Sword of the Creator is alive, and a part of him. Its weight fills some void; the thrumming, pulsating glow a facsimile of the heartbeat he craves. With it back in his hands, he collapses into a heap on the ground.

Sothis floats down next to him. She pushes the hair out of his face with cool hands, her wide eyes filled with concern.

“I did not bring us here,” she repeats, her voice echoing in the huge space. “It seems that you did.”

He looks up at her. It’s hard to deny now that they’re here. But he didn’t move consciously. It scares him to think that even with the two of them occupying his mind, there can be yet another force to pull him in another direction.

Cradling the Sword to his chest, a realisation dawns on him: this sword lacks the heart it gained when he cut his way from the darkness. It is a little less powerful than what he is used to, yes, but that is not what troubles him to his core.

As he holds the Sword to his chest, a realisation dawns on him. It is not the unlocked sword that he is used to, the one he used to cut his way out of the darkness. This sword is a little less powerful. But more than that-

“You were right,” Byleth breathes, disturbed but unable to let go of the weapon in his hands.

“Hm?” Sothis offers, her hands falling away from his face.

“It is singing to me,” he admits. If he closes his eyes, he can even hear it. Not words, not a melody, but his heart knows it to be a song- “It wants your heart back.”

The Sword glows, eerily, in his hands.


	7. BLUE MOONLIGHT

After his impromptu visit to the Holy Mausoleum (and replacing the Sword of the Creator to where it should be, no matter how sorely he may wish to keep it on his person), Byleth listlessly makes his way to bed. Sothis follows alongside him, neither of them speaking a word. There is a gulf of something unsaid between them that he cannot fathom- and he is almost too scared to ask.

The singing is a visceral reminder that the weapon he so craves is built from her bones- that what his hands long to hold is an ancient crime of unimaginable proportions.

“Stop that,” Sothis says, abruptly. He shuts the door to his room and turns around to look at her, both weary and a little on edge; “What you are thinking. I told you- it is ages past.”

“But doesn’t-“

“No,” she says, emphatically, “No. I- _we_ will not go down this path.”

He kicks off his shoes, his cape, his shirt, his socks.

“What if I gathered all the Heroes’ Relics together, could I remake your body?” he asks.

Sothis turns to look at him very slowly.

A few moments pass with her wide, glowing eyes staring at him, unblinking.

“Are you, perchance, an idiot?” she asks, a look of pure incredulity on her face.

He looks away with a mild frown.

“It was just a question,” he mutters, collapsing onto the bed.

Sothis follows suit and shifts until her knees are pressed to side of his shoulder, her hand on the back of his head. He lets out a complimentary grunt as she strokes his hair- a grunt that is, granted, muffled by the pillows crushed beneath his face.

The grip of sleep is a strong thing indeed. But even as he does drift into it he can hear her voice echoing in his mind.

“No,” she murmurs, distantly, “The relics are made from my children, not me. Only the Sword is mine.”

She closes her eyes.

“Thirteen bodies,” she adds, ever so soft, as Byleth drifts into sleep. “I hope they did not feel it.”

They don’t mention it the next day. There are other things to attend to. After all, he has a routine to uphold. Every day he gets up, lectures the Lions, potters around the Monastery, and begins to build his case. It is a little over a week until the mock battle-

Mock battle. How strange that sounds to him now, after a war. A battle with weapons of wood, and children who won’t even use those properly, lest they injure a friend.

His blood boils at the injustice that will come should he not stop it.

He doubles down on his efforts. For now, he can do little but prepare the Lions. Once more time has passed, he will be able to investigate without drawing suspicion to himself- and he hopes he can get some help from Abyss- but as the days tick by, he gives the children his full attention, and tries not to think of them, five years older.

Maybe his memory is foggy, but this time their undivided enthusiasm is almost overwhelming.

_30 th of the Great Tree Moon. Morning._

He dreams the same dream, every night.

This time when he wakes, it is still very early. The sun is only just beginning to rise and chase the darkness away, but Byleth has no intentions of going back to sleep. He can feel Sothis stir in his mind, but she remains in fitful rest, a silent companion. Pulling on his clothes and tying his hair back, he pushes the door to his room open and inhales a lungful of cold morning air. It’s enough to wake up fully.

He slides his hands into his pockets, deep in thought. He crosses through the gardens to the stables. As he opens the storage nearby to feed them, some of the horses stir awake. He approaches one, a pale cream stallion with curled fur at the flanks.

“Six years from now,” he muses aloud, his voice a little rough from sleep.

In this spot, six years from now, Dimitri decided to live. In that pouring rain, on that night, Byleth had almost admitted something to him. But he had swallowed the rest of his words, and both men had come to silent agreement that it would not be addressed. That, perhaps, it was a fluke.

There was good reason for this. It was war, and there was no time for such things. No time for confessions, no time for relationships. But there had been moments, oh so many little moments. The looks shared between them. Their hands, interlinked, over and over. Pinkie fingers locked together at the war table, a hand clasped on the arm, on the thigh, knuckle brushing palms.

When they had seen the Hegemon, the first instinct was not to flee, but to reach for one another’s hands. Together. Always together.

There was no time for relationships. But-

The stallion nickers at him. He rubs a hand along its snout and under its chin, careful to watch the flick of its ears for signs of stress as he offers another handful of grain.

“Did I do the right thing?” he asks, quietly, “Should I have tried to go home?”

He frowns, thoughts overtaking his actions.

He hasn’t the faintest idea of how to do such a thing. It seemed permanent, felt permanent, being pushed back in time. Even so-

Does the original timeline still exist? Do they miss me?

He swallows the knot in his throat.

What would Sothis say? If she’s asleep, he’ll just have to lecture himself.

_It won’t do to think these things, foolish boy! Stop dwelling on what is done and face the future, else you will be lost in the past!_

The stallion nibbles at his palm painlessly. That, at least, brings a small smile on his lips.

He’s about to go back to his room when he senses someone approaching. He has to take a moment to fight his instincts- the one that yells for him to pull out his dagger and engage.

It could be an assassin.

Ha. Not likely. Not in this timeline.

“Hello?” he ventures, dropping his hand to his side and turning around to look.

“Sorry,” Ashe says apologetically, peeking around the corner and hastily coming into view, “I didn’t mean to- um-“

“It’s fine, Ashe,” Byleth says, with a placating nod, “Did I wake you?”

“Oh, no,” Ashe says quickly, “I was already awake. Nervous, I suppose.”

“You needn’t be nervous,” Byleth says, “We’re going to win.”

“You really think so? Huh. If you’re that confident then I will be too,” Ashe says, “I’ll try, anyway.”

He’s still looking at Byleth nervously- meeting his eyes before his gaze darts away. It’s endearing. The Ashe he’s used to is a lot more confident; but he never did lose that compassion.

“Ashe,” he muses, “I have a strange question.”

“Oh, for me? Shoot,” Ashe says, surprised.

“If you had to live your life over again, what would you do differently?” Byleth asks.

Ashe blinks in surprise.

“Is this a test?” he asks, cautiously.

Byleth shakes his head.

“No, just curiosity,” he answers.

Ashe looks up at him and then closes his eyes, lines of concentration appearing on his face.

“I… would try to be kinder,” he says, “I hope that doesn’t sound silly, but I really do think that kindness is the most important part of our lives.”

“Kindness and integrity,” Byleth muses.

“Is it naivety,” Sothis joins, with a yawn, “Or a glimpse of the truth?”

“What was that, professor?” Ashe asks.

“Oh, nothing,” Byleth dismisses, “Look, you should rest up.”

Despite his shy demeanour, Ashe doesn’t back down.

“I’m awake now,” he says.

They stare at each other.

“Okay,” Byleth concedes, with a shrug, “Do you want to make breakfast with me?”

Ashe looks at him, surprised, before he grins enthusiastically.

Byleth nods for him to follow back through the gardens and into the dining hall.

It’s empty when they get in. Not a surprise, considering the time, but he’s a little shocked that there’s no stray knights back from a mission, or student doing an all-nighter.

It is early in the school year, he supposes.

“Do you like to cook, professor?” Ashe asks, as Byleth hops the counter to grab the ingredients.

“Mhm,” Byleth answers, grabbing eggs and sugar. Ashe takes them and puts them on the side-

“Me too!” he chirps.

I know, Byleth thinks, fondly.

“What are we making?” Ashe asks.

“Buns,” Byleth says, “Can you start the dough for me?”

“Oh, sure!” Ashe says, rolling up his sleeves.

The main problem with cooking in Garreg Mach is making enough for everyone. There’s no way for one person to make enough for the entire monastery (obviously), but it feels a little unfair to only make food for himself and Ashe. Or even just the Blue Lions.

He doesn’t want to leave the Deer or the Eagles out.

“Soft heart,” Sothis teases- though, she’s watching Ashe roll out the dough with genuine interest, her ghostly form fortunately not getting in his way in the slightest.

As the sun begins to rise and bathe the dining hall in golden light, the smell coming from the ovens draws Byleth out of his own mind. He switches places with Ashe.

“Was this meant to be an alternative workout?” Ashe asks, turning around to look at Byleth.

“Maybe,” he answers, amused.

It wasn’t, but it does work out quite well that rolling dough does warm up the same muscles Ashe will need later.

He makes a thick, jam-like filling of noa fruit, mixed with just enough spice to make it a little warming. After trying the first batch, he puts slightly less sugar in.

Sugar might be something he’s seen some of the students eat raw (Lysithea, Annette), but he’d rather they weren’t on a sugar high. That, and he knows that Felix won’t eat it if it’s too sugary.

Him and his relatively refined palette.

It isn’t lost on him that the first person who joins them is Dedue.

“Hello!” Ashe chirps, when Dedue’s shadow falls on him, “You’re up early!”

“As are you,” Dedue notes, looking at Ashe and then Byleth.

“I’m an early riser,” Byleth says.

He waves a towel over the first batch of buns, grabs a plate with his other hand, sliding a couple onto said plate and holding it over his head.

“Eat up,” he says, with his professor voice, “We have a big day.”

Dedue comes over to him and take the plate.

“Thank you,” he says.

Byleth watches him out of the corner of his eye as he takes a bite; and is satisfied to the tell-tale Dedue-look of surprise and appreciation. His smile is small, hesitant, and fleeting, but it’s there nonetheless.

They’re kindred spirits, Byleth thinks, a little amused.

“These are good,” Dedue says.

“It’s my personal twist,” Byleth explains, rolling the dough with no small amount of vigour, “Less sugar, more spice. Oh, and working the egg whites for an airy texture.”

“I’m surprised a mercenary knows so much about cooking!” Ashe exclaims, and then backtracks with visible shame, “I’m sorry-“

Byleth snorts.

“It’s a perfectly acceptable observation,” he assuages.

He doesn’t elaborate or explain why it is he can cook.

“May I assist you?” Dedue asks, as he finishes his food.

Byleth looks at him for a moment.

“Go ahead,” he says, “You can roll the dough. Ashe, you too. I’ll do the fillings.”

“It’s good for your arms,” Ashe says, almost conspiratorially, as Dedue joins him with his own rolling pin.

“Indeed,” Dedue agrees.

Byleth finds himself hoping that this means they’ll get past their awkward stage faster. Maybe that’s a mean way of putting it, but he does have a fuzzy memory of Ashe being skittish around Dedue for the first month or so. Of course, those memories are superseded by the two spending a great deal of time together. If Dedue wasn’t with Dimitri, it wasn’t uncommon to find him with Ashe.

He’s mashing the fillings with a fork-

He’s disorientated, wandering around the monastery that he could swear was in pristine condition not a day before, but now he’s seeing it broken, decayed. The faces of his students, older, wiser, and hardened. As happy as he is to see them, and they are to see him, he can feel a pit of dread in his guts.

In the entrance hall, Ashe stands alone, his eyes on the ground. He’s so still.

Byleth approaches him cautiously, coming to his side with a silent look of sadness.

“Is… is Dedue really gone?” Ashe asks, his voice unwavering but solemn.

His eyes stay downcast as he speaks. He seems a far cry from the Ashe of just yesterday- he’s gotten better at hiding his pain, far better. But nonetheless, the grief pours off him in waves, like a tide pulled by a dead moon.

“There’s so much more I wanted to say to him,” he admits, “He was always so tender with the flowers in the greenhouse.”

He looks away, to the side. Away from Byleth.

“I wonder how they’re doing.”

There’s blood and dirt under his nails, a haunted look in his pale green eyes.

-The fork shrieks against the bowl, forcing Byleth out of his memories and back into his new reality.

I must stop getting lost in my own mind, he laments, rolling together another batch of buns for the industrial oven. He pulls the second batch out and sets the tray down before he plates them.

Meanwhile, the doors to the dining hall swing open with gusto.

“Oh, my, gosh!”

Annette’s delighted squeal echoes through the still mostly empty dining hall as she rushes over to the baking trio.

“Annie, please don’t run so early in the morning,” Mercedes says with such genuine displeasure that Byleth bites back a mildly hysterical noise.

“Good morning,” he manages to say instead, smacking the flour off his hands and turning to face the girls.

“You’ve making-“ her inhale sounds almost like she’s about to cry, “-Sweets for breakfast?”

“They’re breakfast buns,” Byleth says mildly, “I need you all to eat light. This is a…”

He trails off because Annette is not paying attention at all. She’s already shoved one of the steaming hot buns in her mouth.

“Mfmf-hmf?”

“They’re hot,” Byleth supplies, with a quirk of his lips.

Annette swallows her giant bite.

“I love you,” she gushes.

Byleth chuffs in amusement, shaking his head.

“Eat your food,” he says.

A glance outside shows the sun is in the sky now. He’s pretty sure that the Deer and the Eagles will take to the training grounds instead of the dining hall, so for now he has it to himself and his class.

“Ashe, Dedue, go sit,” he says, “I’ve got the rest.”

Ashe nods and goes to wash his hands. Dedue looks at Byleth.

He wants to say something. A question, potentially, but he’s not going to in front of other people.

Hm.

“I wonder what it is he wishes to ask,” Sothis murmurs, watching Dedue follow Ashe and sit down at the table closest to the ovens, where Annette and Mercedes have already moved the trays.

They are steadily polishing them off. Despite his best efforts, there might not be enough to go around anymore than the hungry Lion cubs.

“It might be about the recipe,” Byleth thinks back, “I did use some of the things he taught me.”

Sothis floats over and flicks him on the forehead.

“You must be more careful,” she insists, without any malice.

Cooking is one of the things he finds to be soothing. Cooking, fishing, and practicing. Something about the clockwork nature with the potential for something surprising. All three yield visible results- and visible results feel good.

Maybe he’s a very simple person to think so. Regardless, standing there, making breakfast buns for his beloved students, listening to them chatter quietly amongst themselves as the sunlight streams in through the windows, he almost feels normal.

He’s just finished putting batch number three in the oven when the dining room doors swing open again.

“What smells so good?” Sylvain says, hands behind his head, “Would you look at that!”

“Professor, you shouldn’t have,” Ingrid says- although from the sound of awe in her voice she is very pleased that he did.

He turns around to flash the newcomers what he hopes is a welcoming look and goes to wash up.

“You cook?” Felix ventures, looking at the buns dubiously.

He bites back his urge to tell Felix that they aren’t sugary. Sothis nods knowingly, patting the top of his head for his thoughtfulness.

It feels just a little patronising.

“Felix,” Ingrid says, calmly, “Be nice and eat the food the professor so graciously made for us.”

He wonders if Ingrid has a knife to Felix’s back, because he can feel Felix stiffen.

“I wasn’t saying otherwise,” Felix says, evenly.

“I, for one, am very thankful,” Sylvain announces.

“You’re welcome,” Byleth replies, propping the rolling bin up to dry before he grabs a towel to wipe the flour off his workbench.

Satisfied, he walks over to the table.

“These are so good,” Ingrid exclaims.

“You say that about everything,” Felix says.

Ingrid’s eyes flash dangerously.

“I thought we would train before the mock battle,” Felix continues, looking up at Byleth.

“That’s what the other Houses will do,” Byleth agrees, flipping the towel in his hands over his shoulder, “But they’ll tire themselves out.”

He fixes Felix with a look.

“I trust in everyone’s training,” he says, “I don’t need you to try and rush more in. I need you to eat so you have the energy to fight at your best.”

He watches Felix consider these words before giving him the tiniest little smile. He nods and takes one of the buns.

“Wow, really?” Sylvain says, “Just like that?”  
  


“What?” Felix says, his eyes snapping to Sylvain.

“The professor explains something and you’re just ‘oh, okay’,” Sylvain says, with air quotes, “But if I explain myself, you call me an idiot and tell me that I need to stop.”

Felix looks at him judgementally.

“The professor,” he says, like he’s talking to someone very stupid, “Explained his actions. You ‘explain’ why you need to flirt with everything with a pulse. It’s not the same.”

They bicker, but it’s not the dangerous kind, so Byleth doesn’t intervene.

The others simply talk around the back-and-forth between the boys; Mercedes and Ingrid talking about how they’re going to approach the battle, Ashe and Dedue quickly joining, and whilst everyone else is distracted, Annette takes their share of the food.

“Everyone’s here but the little prince,” Sothis muses, “I wonder where he has gotten to.”

Byleth echoes that thought, looking across at the doors.

It’s unusual. Dimitri isn’t late to things. He’s usually far too early.

His concern is fortunately short lived. As he walks back to the oven to retrieve the third and final batch of buns, the doors swing open to reveal a pristine, if tired, looking Dimitri.

“Finally come down to join us, did you?” Sylvain hollers.

“You said you’d wake me,” Dimitri shoots back.

“And I didn’t,” Sylvain replies, unperturbed, “Now who’s the idiot?”

“… You?” Ingrid says, bemused.

“No,” Sylvain says, “You trusted me to wake you up. Terrible idea.”

“He’s right,” Felix says.

“You’re agreeing with me?” Sylvain says, incredulous, “Oh, _Felix,_ I-“

“Don’t push your luck,” Felix snaps.

The table’s previous conversation continues. Byleth carries the tray to the counter and is startled when he looks up to find Dimitri right in front of him.

“Careful,” he scolds, “It’s hot.”

“Sorry,” Dimitri says immediately, stepping back to allow Byleth to put the tray down. Byleth grabs a plate and some tongs, plucking a bun off the tray and placing it on the plate before handing it to Dimitri.

“Good morning,” he says, holding it out to him.

Dimitri looks incredibly confused.

“Good morning professor,” he echoes, taking the plate with one hand. “Did you make these?”

“What gave it away?” Byleth deadpans.

Dimitri blinks, his gaze quickly shifting down, a little embarrassed. He sniffs experimentally.

“They smell divine,” he says.

“It’s not _that_ good,” Byleth responds. “Go. Eat. You need energy for the mock battle.”

“Of course,” Dimitri says, but he doesn’t make any indication of moving to join the others.

In fact, he’s staring.

“What’s wrong?” Byleth asks, with a confused blink.

“Oh,” Dimitri says, shaking himself out of- whatever it was- “Nothing. Thank you.”

He dips into a little bow and retreats, joining the others at the table.

That was strange, Byleth thinks to himself, plating the rest of the buns and bringing that to the table.

“I’m so full already,” Annette groans.

“They’re not all for you,” Byleth points out.

“But I want them,” Annette says, a pleading note in her voice.

As he sets the plates down, he’s silently thankful to see Dimitri eating.

That’s a habit he’s not going to lose any time soon- he picked it up early, and never stopped keeping a close eye on Dimitri’s eating habits. It got very difficult, coaxing him into eating when he was at his lowest, but Byleth always, always forced him to anyway.

He’s glad he doesn’t have to force anything this time. Looking at him there would be no way to know that he can’t taste a single thing.

It’s a silly thing to feel grief over- but feel grief he does.

“Hey professor?” Sylvain ventures.

Byleth looks over to him- thinking maybe Sylvain has a question about their plan for the mock battle, or a training question. However, instead of elaborating he makes a ‘come closer’ gesture and Byleth obliges. When Sylvain reaches up and brushes a thumb along Byleth’s cheek, he has no idea what to think.

Maybe he’s touch-starved, but it does feel nice. Sylvain must moisturise his hands.

Clearly, no one else at the table knows what to think either, because they’re all staring at him.

“Sorry,” Sylvain says, sounding not sorry at all, “You had some flour on you.”

He shrugs.

“Thought it’d take care of it.”

There’s a distinct _snap_ of metal.

“Sylvain,” Ingrid says, exasperated.

Byleth sighs.

“Thanks,” he says, neutrally.

“You’re welcome,” Sylvain replies, mischievously.

Byleth rolls his eyes and goes to go wash his face in the sink- just to be sure that all the flour is gone.

As he does, he can hear the chatter resume.

“Something wrong, Your Highness?” Sylvain asks. Byleth can hear the teasing smirk in his voice.

“Why would there be?” Dimitri says, his voice sharp enough to cut steel.

“No reason,” Sylvain says.

He’s not really sure what that’s about, but at least he’s not going to walk around with flour on his face now.

“Why didn’t you tell me I had flour on my face?” he shoots internally to Sothis, who looks at him mildly.

She shrugs.

“I did not see any.”

With the Lions full on buns, he instructs them to stretch their muscles. A quick run to the training grounds to retrieve practice weapons later, everyone is stood in a circle in the empty dining hall, doing just that.

“Do I have to?” Mercedes asks.

He looks at her for a moment.

“Yes,” he says, “You still need to be warmed up, even if you’re not swinging a sword.”

“Oh,” she says, disappointed.

He catches Sylvain flexing just before Felix smacks him upside the head.

“Ingrid,” Byleth says, tilting his head as he circles around the group, “Like this.”

He slides a hand under her left bicep and taps his foot against her right ankle, until she’s holding the stretch over her head at a better angle.

“Keep it there,” he says, his other hand on the small of her back to watch if her posture is correct.

“Sorry,” she says. She sounds a little faint. It is early in the day, he supposes.

“It’s no problem,” he says. “Mm.”

He’s looking at Sylvain.

“Are you going to adjust my positioning too?” he asks, lips curling into a smile.

“No,” Byleth says, neutrally, “You’ve got it.”

Sylvain looks disappointed.

Byleth lets go of Ingrid, satisfied.

“Good job,” he says. Ingrid smiles at him, almost nervously, before he circles the group again.

“Right,” he murmurs, under his breath, “Ashe, don’t hold your breath.”

“Sorry,” Ashe says.

Byleth huffs.

“None of you need to apologise,” he says, walking over to him.

They’re all very good, and their forms are good, but there’s a few amateur mistakes they’re still making.

Mistakes that lots of people make, yes, but mistakes that could cost them in the long run. He can’t see any harm in course correction- it’s what he’s here to do.

And yet- the atmosphere right now is very strange. He can’t quite put his finger on why.

“Inhale,” Byleth instructs, and Ashe obeys. He stands in front of him, meeting his eyes. “Exhale.”

That’s better. Ashe breathes in deep and exhales just as deeply, without keeping any in his chest.

“Fire after exhaling whenever possible,” Byleth reminds, “There is the least amount of movement in your body at that point.”

“Yes professor,” Ashe chirps.

He studies Ashe’s grip for a moment longer, steps around him, and touches his tensed elbow. Ashe, to his credit, doesn’t flinch or move.

“Aim a bit higher,” he instructs, wrapping his other arm around Ashe’s chest to show him.

“Okay!” Ashe squeaks, his voice going up an octave.

After a few moments Byleth releases him, looking him up and down- and nods.

“Good,” he says.

Someone’s staring at him.

“Who do you think it is, hm?” Sothis intones.

She’s stretching too- stretching her arms over her head with a yawn.

Dimitri is the one staring at him.

He looks over at the prince. To his pleasant surprise, he can’t find anything to correct. Oh, except-

Dimitri visibly brightens when Byleth draws closer.

“Here,” Byleth says, “Keep everything else still.”

Sylvain snorts behind him, and Dimitri looks away from Byleth to shoot his classmate a scowl.

Byleth delicately takes Dimitri’s hand from its position on his lance-

“Cold hands,” he thinks to himself, not realising he’s said it aloud.

“Aha… yes,” Dimitri responds, bashfully, “My apologies.”

Byleth reaches his other hand up to Dimitri’s face. His eyes widen, as blue as the untarnished sky- before Byleth lightly flicks him on the forehead.

“No apologising,” he says.

“Sorry,” Dimitri mutters, and then cringes.

Byleth watches, almost incredulously, as Dimitri’s mouth works around yet another apology before he realises his own spiral- and just shuts his mouth with an audible click.

He puts Dimitri’s hand at a better position on his lance, where his grip isn’t so close that he’s liable to snap the wood, but isn’t too far apart to make it unwieldly.

“You want to keep your hands here,” Byleth explains, “If they’re too close, when you need to hit an opponent on the edge of your radius, you could end up short.”

He hums.

“Or, when you use a combat art, if your hands are too close, you’re going to snap your lance.”

Dimitri looks away, a little flustered.

Ah.

Byleth bites the inside of his lip, annoyed at himself.

He doesn’t want to embarrass Dimitri further, but he does want to try and mitigate any potential hurt feelings. It’s easy to forget how young he is right now.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Byleth says, “You’re very strong. This way, you can reach your full potential.”

Felix makes a noise behind him, a disgusted one. Annette kicks something at him, which he kicks aside.

He didn’t notice, but the rest of the group had gone eerily quiet as he approached Dimitri. Now they’re talking again, critiquing one another, and psyching each other up.

Not that he’s really focusing on that, because he’s too busy stepping back and nodding for Dimitri to make a few practice swings.

He makes a few fluid movements, a restrained jab forward before he slides the lance backwards with the momentum of his body.

The older Dimitri wielded a lance like it was a part of him, able to twist and move the weapon with such fluid deadly grace that it was truly beautiful to behold. This is not that- not yet.

But it will be, one day.

“Good job,” he says, reaching up to ruffle Dimitri’s hair. “Keep it up.”

He turns around too quickly to see Dimitri’s flush go from pink to a magnificent scarlet.

“Oh,” he muses, picking up two pieces of a very broken metal fork. “Weird.”

The sky is a brilliant cyan, but the air retains a comfortable chill. He takes that as a good omen, as the Lions breathe a sigh of relief, clearly wary of any potential heat that might throw them off their game.

Byleth leads the Lions to join the Deer and the Eagles; Hanneman and Manuela greet him with looks of friendly challenge in their eyes.

“How precious,” Manuela says, as Byleth and the Lions approach, “Looks like you and your students have become fast friends. But let’s see how that translates into battle, shall we?”

“Manuela,” Hanneman scolds, “You would do well to keep that ego in check. This will be a fine opportunity to watch a renowned mercenary such as yourself in battle.”

He folds his arms over his chest.

“But do not count us out!” he adds, almost haughtily.

“Oh, we wouldn’t dare,” Sothis drawls mockingly. Byleth inclines his head to the professors.

“How do you intend for this to be done?” he asks, politely.

“Oh, we deploy a handful of students from each house,” Manuela explains, “Unless you really want a challenge- Is that what you’re implying?”  
  


“I’m not implying anything,” Byleth says mildly. “Only that I don’t intend to lose.”

He turns around with a small, satisfied smile on his face. Indignant noises follow his words- he doesn’t want to tease, but he does want to expand the roster so he can pit everyone against everyone else.

It hasn’t escaped his notice that they likely limited the number last time for his sake- he was a new teacher, with barely a week of experience, so having to command his whole class of eight would have been challenging. But now?

“Very well,” Hanneman says.

“Your ego inflates,” Sothis notes, equally prideful, “As it should! We have done great things together. They best watch out for us!”

“Easy,” he thinks back at her, without any malice.

He returns to the Lions to find them hyping each other up. Felix in particular looks like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin if he doesn’t get to fight something in the next minute; it’s not unusual, but it does invoke some serious nostalgia.

They immediately crowd around him as soon as he returns.

“Professor,” Annette says, “Is it time? Is it?”

“We are at your command,” Dedue says.

“I am eager to put my skills to use,” Dimitri enthuses.

Byleth nods at their words. Their attention can be overwhelming when it’s paired with his own steadfast goal, his knowledge of the future; but there is something to be said about being surrounded by his friends, even these younger versions.

He hopes they will grow as close as they once were. He hopes, against hope, against hope.

“It’s nearly time,” Byleth says, “You’ve all worked tirelessly this past week. Do not doubt your abilities, but do not be complacent. We will win this.”

A chorus of “Yes professor!” follows.

“Then let’s go,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, I finished my second Azure Moon run earlier this week. Did I cry? You bet I did.
> 
> Side note, in my planning doc, this was chapter 6. So yeah, this fic is way out of hand. I can’t write concisely to save my life.
> 
> Tune in next week to see two dozen children smack one another with wooden swords! We love to see it.


	8. LAND OF PLENTY

[RIVALRY OF THE THREE HOUSES. ATTEMPT 2.0]

It’s a different than last time from the very offset. Having everyone on the field makes things a lot more chaotic, especially in such a relatively small arena.

Still- it feels like child’s play.

No lives at stake? He can’t remember the last time such a thing was true. Every battle has been life and death situation for so long that he has simply lived and breathed that fear- the fear that he would make a mistake he could not undo. The fear that he would-

“How many times must I put a stop to these thoughts?” Sothis interrupts, jabbing her fingers into his arm. Of course, it doesn’t do anything, but he can feel the sentiment of it in his mind regardless.

“Sorry,” he thinks back, lamely.

To the matter at hand.

“Just like we practiced,” he says, positioning himself next to Felix and Dimitri. “I will call commands as I see them, but otherwise, I’m trusting everyone to know their strengths and limitations.”

“This better not be a waste of time,” Felix mutters, his fingers clearly itchy on a false blade.

Dimitri doesn’t audibly agree, but he’s giving the very same physical cues.

“Practice never is,” Byleth says, firmly.

The Lions approach between the cover of two small thickets. The Deer set up in a forest to the north-west, and the Eagles set up on a platform to the north-east.

Byleth wonders if Lorenz will charge off without Claude’s say-so this time, and is highly amused to find that he will, in fact, do such a thing regardless of time shenanigans.

The difference is that Lorenz charges out with Ignatz and Leonie this time.

Raphael and Hilda exchanges glances as Claude smacks his forehead in frustration, flanked by Marianne (who is trying her hardest to hide), and Lysithea (who just looks annoyed to be here).

As Byleth instructs the Lions to duck into cover, Caspar decides to join the fray, flanked by Dorothea and Petra. That leaves Bernadetta (hiding behind Hubert), Ferdinand (just in front of them), Linhardt (looking like may doze off at any second), and Edelgard herself, waiting at the platform.

Overseeing everyone-

It’s the smell of the fire, burning skin and clothes and hair. It’s such a strong scent it’s impossible to ignore. He’s already injured, limping slightly as he chases after Dimitri, who forges on blindly, desperate for his revenge. He can see Edelgard watching them from her platform and he thinks what would have happened if he hadn’t-

He grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches.

“Put your pain into battle,” Sothis says in his ear, ghosting across his body as he draws his wooden sword and bends his knees, ready to move.

“But not too much?” he echoes back. “Who knows what I would do, if I could feel.”

What he can _feel_ \- is Sothis frown at his words.

With a watchful eye he is pleased to see Felix restrain himself and not dive right into the middle of the fight. Instead, he lets Dedue move- the jab of Lorenz’ lance doesn’t even make Dedue flinch.

“Aha,” Lorenz says weakly, before Dedue follows up and hits him across the chest with the wooden axe.

“Owchie!” Sothis chirps, eager to change the conversation. She doesn’t sound worried so much as exhilarated.

Ashe quickly follows up- Dedue steps back, and an arrow smacks into Lorenz’s gut.

Ignatz jumps back as much as he can when Dimitri and Felix advance; Leonie is kind enough to protect him, sliding over as her boots catch on the grass.

“Not so fast!” she yells, her lance thudding dully against Felix’s sword. The two wrestle- both at roughly the same strength. However, swords and lances aren’t evenly matched- as he already showed the Lions- and Felix wins out, disarming Leonie. She raises her fists as if she’s about swing.

“Hey, no bare knuckles! This is a church!” Claude yells, his hands cupped to his mouth.

Leonie lowers her fists.

“Darnit,” she mutters, slinking off the field.

Ignatz fires then, soundly beaming Felix in the chest.

Even with false, wooden arrows, and false, wooden blades, they still leave bruises. It’s proof of Faergus upbringing, he supposes, that none of the Lions react to the occasional bruise.

Then it’s the Eagles.

Petra gets there first. She’s closest to Byleth, but he can see Dimitri’s head turn.

He’s going to jump in. And oh, how that twists around his ribcage. He can’t exactly encourage Dimitri to jump in the way of things meant for others- and he won’t.

But at the same time, he knows that the Lions want to prove themselves.

They did just prove that swords beat lances, though.

Petra attacks with ferocity, but it’s uncertain ferocity. Dimitri and her struggle, landing hits on one another before they both spring apart, boots on dew-wet grass.

Dorothea aims for Byleth. Thunder arcs through the air. He makes a cursory attempt to dodge, but the lightning still sparks and hits. It’s a neutered spell- it’s not enough to scar, burn, or truly hurt like getting hit in the face by a spell would normally be.

Frankly, it feels weird. He drops to a knee and digs his fingers into the dirt, grounding the current and letting the sparks dissipate.

“Sorry professor!” Dorothea calls, sweetly.

“Good aim!” he responds, standing back up.

Dorothea looks genuinely taken aback by the compliment; then she recovers, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

Caspar stops short of reaching them, huffing and puffing.

“Our turn,” Sothis chimes.

Byleth clicks his fingers and points forward. Sylvain and Ingrid push forward-

“Sorry,” Sylvain says, as Ignatz shrinks away from the oncoming lance.

Byleth notices that he’s pulling that punch- his swing goes wide as Ignatz bows out, gratefully.

Ingrid joins Byleth and levels her lance at Dorothea.

“Oh, Ingrid!” Dorothea proclaims, “How could you?!”

Byleth’s eyes threaten to glaze over, but Sothis pinches his cheek and brings him back.

“Like this,” Ingrid shoots back, swinging her lance with her forward momentum. Dorothea staggers, not quite out of the fight yet, but winded.

Annette raises a hand and a violent gust of wind tears through the trees, very nearly knocking Dorothea off her feet.

She struggles to stand up, and meeting Byleth’s eyes, she too bows out.

Dedue follows up on Petra, but she’s too quick for him to hit. Byleth takes that opportunity himself.

It’s the smart tactical decision. That’s what he tells himself. This is a practice battle. No one will be hurt.

But he knows how little she weighed upon her death, her body limp in his arms before he laid her down without a burial. Without anything.

“Focus!” Sothis snaps.

He runs at her, intent on pushing. Whilst she regards him with wary surprise, she is able to dodge his first attack- just not the second.

He raps her hand with the sword, and she releases her own blade with a yip of pain.

“You have beating me,” she admits.

Her face is a little flushed.

Byleth nods, respectfully.

“Well done,” he says.

He hears everyone move forward as he leads the pride ahead, using the momentum to pressure the other houses.

“Are you attacking us both at once?” Claude calls, “I didn’t take you for someone who gets overconfident like that!”

“Why would we tell you what our tactics are, Claude?” Dimitri shouts back, to Byleth’s surprise.

“Because you’re confident in them?” Claude replies, “What’s the harm, your princeliness?”

Dimitri rolls his eyes.

Last time, he’d been a lot more careful, approaching the Deer from cover before circling the healing platform to let the Eagles come to them. This time, with more bodies on the field, he can have a bit more fun.

Byleth turns around to meet the eager eyes of the Lions. Silently, he gestures for Annette, Mercedes, Ashe, and Ingrid to split off to the west. Dimitri, Felix, Sylvain, and Dedue will go east.

“I guess we have no choice,” Claude muses, “Get them whilst they’re distracted!”

“Yeah!” Raphael enthuses; Lysithea follows, thoughtfully. Hilda and Marianne stay put.

“Uh,” Claude says, helpfully, “You too, Hilda- I know, I know. But think of all the things you won’t be doing when this is done!”

She narrows her eyes at him but does comply with his request.

When Marianne refuses to budge, Hilda grabs her hand.

“If I’m going, you are too!” she says, in a very ‘coming down with me’ manner. Marianne lets out a panicked noise but doesn’t put up much of a fight as Hilda drags them forward.

“Hubert, Ferdinand, support Caspar,” Edelgard says; “Linhardt, you too.”

Their united agreements of varying tones aside, all three join the fray, leaving only Bernadetta with Edelgard.

The melee of students square off against one another. Eyes dart back and forth, fingers on wooden hilts. Byleth must grip his own sword hard, if the look Sylvain gives him is anything to go by.

He forces himself to meet that look with confidence. And it is true enough, he is confident. Part of him is enjoying this thoroughly. It’s the baggage that comes with it, the unknown looming overhead.

The most dangerous one here is Hubert, who was smart enough to only move close enough to hit anyone who breaks from cover.

Just like always, Byleth thinks, sardonically.

He’d been hit clear on by Hubert’s magic in Gronder Field- and it had hurt like hell. He remembers that, because afterwards he hobbled through the wreckage of flaming wood, choking on black miasma and blood, waving to Ingrid to chase Hubert- like she needed the encouragement- and he had sprinted down the flames, terrified that the minute he took his eyes off his students, they would die.

And he could hear Dimitri’s ragged screams, like an animal, slaughtered.

Breathe, damn you.

“Stick to the trees,” he calls, voice loud and clear, “All of you!”

“Can’t stick to the trees if there are no trees!” Caspar yells.

He barrels across the field, unaware or uncaring of the shout of protest from the rest of the Eagles.

Just like before, Dedue steps ahead to duel him, and after Caspar has exhausted himself trading blows, Felix zips forward and sends him sprawling a good distance away.

“Eugh,” Caspar groans, getting to his feet, “You got me good!”

“Of course they did, you ran in alone!” Linhardt yells, exasperated.

Byleth jogs to the pair, pulling them into the cover of the trees, and washes a healing spell over Dedue.

He hears Ferdinand before he sees him.

“Allow me!”

Byleth ducks the sweep of Ferdinand’s lance- he yanks Felix out of the way too, entirely out of habit. He seems surprised, if not by the quick reaction, by how deceptively strong Byleth is. He is more than able to reposition Felix as Sylvain dives in to join them, the movement reminiscent of a joust as the two lances clash.

Neither back down, but Dimitri takes the opportunity to encircle around to Ferdinand’s back. The strike of his lance leaves an audible crack.

Ferdinand inhales through his teeth, his legs shaking. Despite that, he stays upright, though he does raise a hand in a white flag.

“Augh,” he mutters, “How did I fail? I must need to train harder.”

Byleth dusts himself off, glancing around at the boys before he nods.

“Don’t push forward without me,” he says, now looking across at the other half of the group and making a break to join them.

He gets there as Annette blasts Hilda off her feet. She lands, a little worse for wear, and to her displeasure, muddied.

“Ouch!” she complains, “Was that really necessary?”

“Sorry!” Annette calls, her voice bright and genuinely apologetic.

Marianne has already left the field, he notes, leaving Raphael, Lysithea, and Claude.

In the east, Linhardt, Hubert, Bernadetta, and Edelgard.

He notes that both teachers are staying back, as he expected.

When Raphael advances on them, Byleth nods to Ashe to fire at him. He gets a solid hit on Ingrid, who winces, letting out a pained breath.

Mercedes quickly patches her up. Ingrid wipes the sweat from her brow, shooting Mercedes a grateful smile.

He can hear commotion on the other side now, but he’ll have to trust the boys to deal with it.

Although- these are the teenage versions of the men he’s used to.

“Ingrid, go help the boys,” he says.

She looks at him with fondness in her eyes.

“I can do that,” she says, with the air of someone whose been doing such her whole life.

“Coming up with brilliant schemes, I can handle,” Claude calls, as Byleth repositions the Lions, “But fighting?”

“That isn’t going to work, Claude,” Byleth replies, “I’ve already seen you fight. You’re a brilliant shot.”

Claude pauses. He’s done quite well to hide his location in the thicket; though Byleth knows he’s on the ground, not in the trees, just from how his voice echoes.

“Hey, I’m trying to psyche you out,” he complains, after a moment, “Don’t compliment me!”

“Am I throwing you off your game?” Byleth shoots back, his voice monotonous.

“No!” Claude says. Byleth doesn’t actually expect the arrow to pierce his shoulder- but pierce it does.

“Like I said,” he says, showing no pain. He pulls the arrow out. Such is the problem with play fighting like this- someone with skill will still hit hard enough to break the skin, break bones, break the weapons themselves.

He waves for the others to aim for Lysithea, who has also done a good job concealing herself. He knows she’s here, if nothing else, because no matter how well she hides, her white hair is easy to spot.

He glances to his right- looks like sending Ingrid over did help, as he watches Linhardt sleep-walk away from the field.

“Mercedes, go right,” he says.

“Okay!” Mercedes responds, doing just that.

“Annette, Ashe, can you handle Lysithea?”

“Leave it to us!” Annette chirps.

He can hear Lysithea scoff.

“You’re coming to fight me yourself? Oh Teach,” Claude says, a flirtish note in his voice, “I do admit, I-“

Byleth breaks into a sprint, slicing clean through the wooden barriers, and breaks into the treeline.

Another arrow. This one misses. Left. He turns, eyes sharp- another one goes into his leg.

Maybe it says something about him that, whilst he notes the pain and the bruises which will follow, he’s just pleased to see that even a young Claude is as formidable as he remembered.

“You know, if you’d taught us instead, I’d be on your side,” Claude calls.

His voice- in the trees.

Byleth smiles to himself, sheathing his sword to climb up the nearest tree. More arrows pelt him, but he’s getting better at anticipating the angle.

A foot very nearly collides with his face, though.

“I’m still on your side,” Byleth responds- “Not right now, but-“

“In general?” Claude concludes.

Byleth looks up to find Claude staring down at him; green eyes assessing him, calculating, trying to cut into his skin and find out what’s underneath.

For a time, they clashed, in a silent way. Byleth never let anyone in, and Claude hated that he couldn’t tell who their new professor on campus was. Before things fell apart, they spent more time together- and after retaking Fhirdiad, he kept in constant contact with the man. They’d grown quite close, really.

He hopes they can grow closer sooner this time.

There’s an arrow trained on him. Byleth’s hands are occupied grasping onto the trunk and branch of the tree- but Claude draws his own weight back to fire directly at his chest.

Only, instead of that, the branch he’s standing on snaps.

He yelps, his weight tipping onto Byleth- who definitely can’t hold them both up- and the two crash to the ground.

Byleth’s back twinges painfully, a spasm running from his hips to his neck. It feels deeply unpleasant, the kind of pain that starts off numb.

He inhales, time halting as he commands it, and turns it back just a few moments. This time, as Claude draws back, Byleth grabs him. The branch snaps, and they still tumble to the ground, but he lands far less awkwardly. It’s on his ass, which still hurts, but it doesn’t feel like maybe he’s done some stupid, irreparable damage to his spine.

Claude lands in his lap.

At first, he just looks utterly confused- before he has the decency to look sheepish.

“You caught me,” he offers. “How did you-?”

Byleth waves a hand over him. He only has a couple of scraps and cuts from the branches- it’s mostly an instinct. Claude looks at him with incredulity.

Instead of speaking, Claude stares at him. To his surprise, the to-be-duke suddenly pins him down, hands on his shoulders. His fingers dig into the wound from his previous shot. Byleth’s eyes widen in shock, but he’s pliant, unwilling to struggle.

“Just what’s your game?” Claude asks. His voice is low, but it’s a demand, nonetheless.

Byleth doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know what he can say, that wouldn’t be laughable. Claude’s eyes narrow further at his silence.

“Who are you,” he asks, his eyes hard, “What do you want?”

“Byleth Eisner,” he answers, “I want to teach you.”

“Is that it?” Claude says. It’s not a question, and he doesn’t sound convinced.

“Yes,” Byleth says. “Unhand me, Claude.”

For another moment, the two stare at each other, before Claude obeys. He releases his grip, his fingers now bloodied.

“Sorry,” he says, back to normal, “You won’t tell anyone about that, right?”

Byleth sits up, dusting himself off once again. He reaches a hand up.

Claude, for all his bravado, his recklessness- flinches.

Byleth cups his cheek and smiles.

The way Claude’s eyes meet his, it is as if he has brought the sky down to the ground.

“Professor!”

He’s standing up as Ashe and Annette join them- and Hanneman, who whips a spell just shy of Byleth’s head.

“You got me good,” Claude says, also standing up, “Guess I’ll go cheer from the side-lines.”

He jogs away without another word.

“He remains as strange as he ever was,” Sothis says, watching him, “I wonder, do you remember him?”

“What do you mean?” he shoots back internally, “Of course I do.”

Sothis seems preoccupied.

“Mm,” she murmurs, “Never mind.”

She disappears, leaving Byleth to face Hanneman.

Before he can do much of anything though, Ashe and Annette pelt him with spells and arrows. The combined wrath of two very zealous students is more than enough to make the teacher back off.

“My goodness,” Hanneman says, holding up one hand before he limps away.

Byleth nods to Ashe and Annette.

“Good work you two,” he says warmly. They both preen as he leads them out of the forest.

He’s glad that the rest of the Lions listened to his command. As they come back together, he notes that Hubert is still on the field- looking worse for wear- and Bernadetta has- somehow- been lured into the open.

“Dimitri,” Byleth barks. The prince’s head snaps up. “With me!”

Even as the words leave his mouth, his mind betrays him-

_Facing you, I grow weak._

Dimitri’s hand in his, their fingers interlinked. Dimitri is so strong, and he has been through so much, but his hands, they tremble, just as Edelgard’s wicked claws tremble before they raise in another terrible act of violence.

Byleth bites his tongue hard enough that it bleeds.

“Professor,” Dimitri says, as Bernadetta shrieks for the rest of the Lions to get back, and the familiar sound of magic fills the air, “I’m here.”

His boots catch the grass as he slides to a stop.

“Are you injured?” he asks, surprised.

“Hardly,” Byleth answers, neutrally.

“So,” Edelgard says, as they approach.

She’s a child. She’s a child she’s a child a child-

He sees himself swing the Sword of the Creator to sever her head from her shoulders and make ribbons of her, for everything, for every life lost for war-

“Be mindful,” Sothis says, in his ear.

“Time for us to settle the matter of who is stronger!” Edelgard calls.

Dimitri’s eyes do not show sadness nor grief, just the thrill of a friendly challenge.

“I accept,” he announces, “I will not hold back!”-  
  


The slashing of heroes’ relics which sends cascades of magical energy across the field, twisting crackling black and red, the power behind their wielders, cursed-blooded-thieves.

“Thieves?” Byleth echoes, internally.

Sothis doesn’t reply.

He forces himself to focus by joining Dimitri in charging. Edelgard and Dimitri trade blows, and true to their word, neither hold back. But these are toys of wood, and this battle is staged.

Is it fair, then, for Byleth to join the fray?

He decides otherwise. He’ll let the lords fight, because Manuela is staring at him across the field and even if she is a medic first, even a warning blow of her magic will be painful to anyone not used to it.

Byleth runs for her, blasting his own magic. This catches her by surprise. Thunder booms just past her head, as he ducks down to avoid the retaliation. She swings a wooden sword to parry his blow, and dances out of the way. Not bad. He swings his own sword and, after a test strike, smacks it out of her hands.

Meanwhile-

Edelgard’s swings are hard, and precise, but she’s not used to holding a weapon. Dimitri, on the other hand, is. He’s already commanded others, already fought, and killed.

If Edelgard has killed, it has been through the hands of others.

Dimitri disarms her and levels the lance to her sternum.

“To think we would lose so readily,” she laments, dropping the axe.

Manuela lets out a deep sigh.

“Well done,” she says.

Jeralt’s voice booms across the field-

“The winner is the Blue Lion house!”

Sothis crows in victory, to Byleth’s surprise. He has to turn away from Manuela to hide his utter shock as the goddess at his shoulder cups her hands to her mouth and howls.

“Sothis!” he exclaims internally, with a bloom of fondness in his chest.

Turning away from Manuela has other side effects. As Manuela leaves the field with Edelgard in tow- to go and look over all the students and see if anyone needs to go to the infirmary- the Lions charge up the platform to join Byleth and Dimitri.

“We won!” Annette exclaims, her excitement shockingly close to Sothis’.

“Of course we won,” Felix says, nonplussed.

“Thanks to everyone’s hard work,” Dimitri concludes, smiling.

There’s sweat running down the side of his face. In fact, everyone is looking a bit sweaty. A few are looking a little bloodied too, bruised, the after-marks of magic. Byleth himself has a shallow arrow wound in his shoulder and on his calf, bruises from falling out of a tree, and a handful of cuts.

They’re all smiling at each other. He wishes he could lock them in time here, forever.

“That is a dangerous thought,” Sothis warns, her hands on his shoulders, his neck. “Do not repeat it.”

There’s an edge to her warning that he barely recognises, but it rumbles through his soul.

“Come,” he says, as eyes turn to him, “Let’s get everyone cleaned up.”

“You look so serious professor!” Sylvain complains, “We just won!”

Byleth blinks.

“I didn’t…”

Sylvain wilts a little as Byleth looks away, shot another glare from Dimitri. Byleth takes a deep breath.

“Well done everyone,” he says, “You did great work. You’ve all improved this week.”

The Lions preen, turning to one another, bumping shoulders.

“Now go get cleaned up,” he repeats, seriously.

“That’s better,” Sylvain says mildly, as Ingrid kicks at his feet.

The group walks off the field in high spirits; Byleth parts from them quietly. He swerves away to his fellow faculty.

“Nicely done professor,” Manuela says, “I nearly ended up a patient in my own infirmary.”

“You are quite talented,” Hanneman agrees, “I wonder how much of that has to do with your crest-“

“None,” Jeralt says, making Hanneman jump, “No correlation.”

Hanneman looks at Jeralt, likely weighing if asking him about his crest will be useful. He decides against it, under Jeralt’s withering gaze.

“Good work kid,” Jeralt says, ruffling Byleth’s hair.

Byleth shakes his head.

“It was the students,” he says, “They worked hard this week.”

“Yeah,” Jeralt says, “To impress you.”

Byleth doesn’t have an answer for that. He looks away, a small flush on his cheeks.

Once the faculty meeting is done, and Byleth has healed and bandaged his own wounds (with protests on how actually bandaging such meagre wounds was unnecessary). Getting an earful from Manuela about his, quote, stupid masculine pride, had hurt a little but when it comes down to it-

“The songstress is right,” Sothis says, floating aside him, “You do simply bear unnecessary pain. You needn’t. It is a weakness to let yourself suffer when you can fix your pains.”

Byleth purses his lips. He doesn’t want to say it, but Sothis already knows. It’s hard to hide things from someone who shares a mind with you.

“You don’t deserve pain,” Sothis hisses, and he is unsure if she’s angry at him or at the concept. Perhaps both.

Unsure on how to respond, Byleth puts his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders as he walks.

The mock battle is one thing, but now the test begins. As it were. He needs to use the bandit leader to expose the Flame Emperor. And kill Solon.

Oh, maybe that one first.

“I agree,” Sothis says sweetly, her teeth on his ear, her anger at his spine.

“Professor?”

He blinks and finds himself about an inch from smacking into Dimitri.

Not only that, but the rest of the Blue Lions are at his back, looking at him with different variations of concern, amusement, and he doesn’t even want to know what that look on Annette’s face means.

“Sorry,” Byleth says, looking up at him.

“You were deep in thought,” Dimitri notes, gently.

“Was there something you wanted to talk about?” Byleth asks, finally having the wherewithal to step out of Dimitri’s personal space and address everyone.

“I was hoping we could all share a meal together,” Dimitri says, “It could serve as both a victory celebration and a post-battle analysis. What do you think?”

Oh yes. He remembers this. Last time it had been his first taste of the companionship that would guide and nurture him into a real person. It had also been more than a little awkward, as he had no social skills to speak of, and no one had time to really understand his cues yet. Annette and Mercedes had essentially carried him through the whole dinner. This time, the very idea fills him with yearning- he wants to spend time with all of them, very much.

“That sounds good,” Byleth answers.

“Good,” Dimitri echoes, with a smile.

“I’m glad,” Ingrid says, “We were worried you would be in a meeting for the rest of the day.”

Felix nods.

“Your tactics were nearly decent,” he says.

Byleth looks at him, amused by that.

“More than decent,” Annette says, “We were only able to win because of you!”

“I don’t think that’s all it is,” Byleth counters, kindly.

“Today was exhilarating but I’m so hungry,” Mercedes says, faintly.

“Me too,” Ashe echoes, sounding very concerned about their collective hunger.

Byleth nods and waves a hand for them to begin moving. Unsurprisingly, Mercedes and Ashe move the fastest, to the head of the pack. Annette quickly catches up to them, and the group settles down at a table like the multi headed hydra of hungry children they are. As Byleth does a quick head count, he is reminded of peeping chicks.

“Impressive work out there,” comes a voice from behind him. He looks at Claude, a little surprised by his approach. “And I didn’t thank you for catching me. So, thank you.”

He taps his forehead with two fingers.

“I owe you,” he adds, sweetly.

“Catch you?” Dimitri ventures, also turning around to look at Claude.

The rest of the Lions, whilst watching, continue to talk amongst themselves. If he remembers right, everyone is a little wary of Claude. Whilst he understands the sentiment- with the persona the young lord has illustrated around himself- it makes him feel a little sad.

“Oh yeah,” Claude says, lips drawing into his not-smile, “We were duelling in the treetops and Teach here caught me when we fell.”

“What? Why?” Dimitri says, though which part he is questioning is unclear.

“Tactical advantage,” Claude answers, holding up a finger, “And… because you didn’t want me to hurt my delicate bones?”

He looks at Byleth for support.

“Hm,” Byleth answers, unhelpfully, “Why wouldn’t I catch you?”

Claude, surprisingly, doesn’t seem to have an answer.

“The Deer did well,” Byleth continues, “Congratulations.”

Claude laughs.

“No need to butter me up,” he says, “Though, I won’t stop you either.”

“Is there something else you wanted, Claude?” Dimitri prompts, his voice a little short.

Claude’s grin widens. He leans into Dimitri’s space.

“You?” he ventures.

Dimitri flushes.

“Wh-“

“Don’t tease him,” Byleth interrupts, kindly.

“But Teach, it’s so much fun,” Claude complains, as Dimitri blushes, looking between them- “Oh, fine. I’m done ruffling feathers, for now.”

Claude leans back and turns to leave.

“Did you have a bun?” Byleth asks.

That makes him stop. He turns back around and looks at Byleth, brows furrowed.

“Hm?”

“The buns,” Byleth says, neutrally, “They’re on a tray on the back table. There should be enough left for the Deer. You should have them.”

Claude looks incredibly confused.

“The professor made them,” Dimitri elaborates, regaining himself. He folds his arms behind him. His posture is almost defensive, as his elbows brush Byleth’s side.

“Oh, did you now?” Claude asks, his tone unreadable, “Then maybe I’ll help myself.”

“Please do,” Byleth says.

Claude leaves, though Byleth catches the tail edge of him muttering to himself.

“Inscrutable?” Sothis echoes, “How funny, coming from him of all people!”

Byleth shakes his head and sits back down with the Lions.

As food is shared among them, he listens to the students’ chatter, their observations, their questions, their teasing. It’s interesting. He’s very pleased to hear them acknowledge their own shortcomings in the fight, and after he poses the question, the group can even offer alternative tactics. Tactics which lie close to what he used in the last timeline.

“What would you like to learn?” he asks, as the group looks up, “Individually. I will teach everyone in general, but I think one-to-one tutoring for specifics might be… fun?”

“Fun, huh?” Sylvain offers. Byleth blinks before realising that Sylvain is rubbing his foot against his calf.

“Sylvain,” Byleth says, warningly.

“What?” he says, innocently.

“You needn’t tell me now,” Byleth adds, addressing everyone once again. “Just think about it.”

A group echo of agreement.

“You know professor,” Mercedes says, “You are very good at your job.”

Byleth raises an eyebrow, pausing his vicious devouring of a slice of pie to do so.

“Yeah,” Annette says, “You don’t act like a mercenary. I mean, you fight like one, and you’re super strong, but you seem to really know how to teach.”

Byleth swallows.

“Do I?” he offers, neutrally.

“It’s true,” Ingrid muses, chewing thoughtfully, “But you haven’t taught before, have you?”

Byleth hums. He can feel Sothis in his mind, watching him.

“Not to this extent,” he says, after a moment, “But in my father’s mercenary band, we critiqued each other a lot; it helps people to survive if they can see their weaknesses.”

He can feel eyes on him. It doesn’t seem like everyone buys it.

“They must think you have some scandalous, secret past,” Sothis notes.

“They’re not completely wrong,” he thinks back softly, pleased when Sylvain jumps back in and steers the conversation towards their victory once more.

It’s not like he can tell them the truth, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, I forgot today was Thursday.
> 
> I hope everyone's doing good this week, I am stupidly busy since I'm moving house and going back to work on the same day. Because, you know, one isn't stressful enough. As such, if the next update is late, my deepest apologies. Being an adult can be really hellish sometimes.
> 
> Be safe, make good choices, uhhhh GO LIONS


	9. THE LIE UPON MY LIPS

_5th of Harpstring Moon, Morning._

Byleth leans his hand against the doorframe, his body flush against the wall as he peers into the library. Sothis floats above him, her hair shimmering against the back of his neck. Their expressions are matching- expressions of determination.

There is no one in the library right now. No one, except for one man.

“Solon,” Sothis hisses, her voice dripping with potent malice, “Wretched existence.”

Byleth’s grip on the frame tightens until his fingers begin to hurt.

“He took you from me,” he snarls internally, feeling a cold fire in his chest, “He killed countless innocent people in Remire.”

Inhaling sends a twinge of pain on top of that cold fire, a pain that he will call grief- if grief even covers it.

“He helped my father,” he adds, darkly, “I’m going to make him pay for all that he’s done.”

The reason he hasn’t actually jumped in, grabbed Solon, and beaten his brains in, is that the part of him that is still cool, calm, and calculating, is thinking it over. He could lead them to Shambhala; Those Who Slither in the Dark’s mysterious and as yet still unlocated base. But if Solon smells danger, he could run. And if his murder isn’t entirely secret, then-

“Mister professor?”

Byleth nearly jumps out of his skin as Cyril tugs at his shirt insistently.

“I didn’t mean to scare ya,” Cyril adds, sounding very much like he doesn’t care, “I need to get past.”

“Sorry Cyril,” Byleth says, as the opportunity slips through his fingers. He doesn’t have to fight to keep his face expressionless, but he does have to fight internally as he laments the opportunity’s loss.

“If he causes trouble then we shall stop it,” Sothis says, confident and soothing, “I know you wish him dead- but worry not. His death will come.”  
  


Byleth hums to himself, an acknowledgement of that and of Cyril who startles, staring at him.

“Oh,” Cyril says, blinking, “You know my name?”

Byleth nods, giving him a conspiratorial look. Hopefully.

“Lady Rhea mentioned you,” he lies.

It’s not really complex he wants to encourage. He understands, more than he used to, why Cyril is so devoted to Rhea- why Rhea inspires such devotion in the first place. She is captivating. Even after years of imprisonment, wilting without the sunlight, so raw and so- for lack of a better term, human- it was hard to look away from her. Like something special and precious, so much so that the natural instinct is to follow.

Rhea isn’t a bad person. Nor is she a bad role model. He just wishes that Cyril learnt to branch out before the war snatched Rhea away and only tripled his devotion in her absence.

Regardless of Byleth’s thoughts on the matter, Cyril puffs up proudly. He says nothing else; he just walks past to carry on with his chores, with a bit more of a spring in his step this time.

Byleth sighs to himself, casting down the rest of his thoughts and his latent impotent rage, and directs his mind towards something more useful. Case in point, it has been five days since the mock battle. The pre-determined future awaits. He has settled on pursuing the Slithers (as Sothis has so kindly anointed them) first and foremost. Exposing them as key players could change that future. Hopefully, for the better.

He would say it can’t be worse, but there is no way of knowing that.

“We do have another target,” Sothis says, as they walk back down the corridor, “A far easier target at that.”

Byleth raps his knuckles on the open door of his father’s study.

Said father is stood at his desk, wearing glasses, wearing an expression of intense concern and commiseration at the stack of papers that have already piled up on his desk.

“Father?”

Jeralt hums in response, pulling the glasses off his face and rubbing an open hand over his eyes and nose.

Byleth frowns a little.

“If you’re doing important work, I can come back-“

Jeralt interrupts with a scoff, using his hands to push himself away from the desk and standing up straight with rueful smile.

“Important?” he says, “That’s impossible, I work for the Church of Seiros.”

Jeralt (and Sothis) both snicker as Byleth walks into the room proper. He ignores the joke, instead casting a glance at the bookshelf. It makes his chest feel bad, so he stops looking.

  
“What’s up, kid?” Jeralt asks, “Sick of the brats?”

“No,” Byleth says, emphatic even though he’s well aware that it’s a joke, “I want to spend time with you.”

“Really?” Jeralt says dubiously, pausing before he adds, “I’m not complaining.”

He walks over and punches Byleth gently on the shoulder. Byleth stands stock still, with no give, but does tilt his head to lead in a question.

“Tea?” he asks.

Jeralt raises an eyebrow.

“No offense kid,” he says, sounding offended, “But you can’t win me over with fancy teas that taste like wet grass, and cakes that aren’t good for anything more than one bite.”

He stands to his full height. He is still taller than Byleth, though the gap is no longer such a mighty thing. Byleth entertains it, however, raising his eyebrows in return.

“I’m a grown-ass man,” Jeralt says.

Byleth blinks.

“I’ll replace the tea with beer,” he says, “The cakes stay.”

Jeralt looks at him, a little put out.

“Cake and beer? Can’t we just go to the pub?”

“Father,” Byleth says, mildly, “We are both on duty. It is 7 in the morning. We cannot.”

“This job has made you sensible,” Jeralt says, with mock-horror as he slings his arm over Byleth’s shoulders- “It’s terrible.”

“I was always sensible,” Byleth replies haughtily, knowing that is a lie and continues to be a lie.

Since it’s sunny and (almost) warm, Byleth drags Jeralt into the courtyard as he sets up his usual tea-time options.

“Do the kids really fall for this?” Jeralt ponders out loud.

“Fall for it?” Byleth echoes, shooting him a look.

“You heard me,” Jeralt says. “The easiest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

Byleth considers this as he stacks the pastries, still warm from the ovens.

“It is,” he concedes, “But through the ribcage can be quicker with a fine enough blade.”

Jeralt looks at him with concern, lips pursed. He mulls this information over.

“You… hm… yeah,” he says, thoughtfully, “It is, isn’t it?”

“Sit,” Byleth says, wiping powdered sugar from his hands and pulling Jeralt by his furred collar.

“Bossy,” Jeralt says, purely observationally, immediately reaching for one of the comedically large flagons of beer that Byleth has procured for the two of them.

“Yes,” Byleth replies, sitting down, “I am the boss.”

Jeralt looks at him- and whilst he’s trying to portray this back-and-forth banter as one of equals, there’s a fondness in his eyes that cannot be hidden by any façade. He smiles, looking away, and gulps down the beer.

“This stuff is good,” he says, putting the flagon down, “But I shouldn’t be surprised that the Church has the best beer.”

Byleth follows suit.

The beer _is_ good. He hasn’t had a drink yet- it’s not entirely appropriate to drink flagon after flagon of sweet hops water when he’s teaching- so he almost forgot how good it was here. After all, most of it was lost during the first siege. Such a shame.

“So,” Jeralt ventures, “You want an update on your bandit, right?”

“And I want to spend time with you,” Byleth says, gently.

“Heh,” Jeralt chuckle, “That’s real sweet, kiddo.”

The two of them sit for a moment, just basking in the sunlight. Byleth munches absently on a pastry as jam oozes out of the side. Jeralt’s fingers tap lazily against the side of his flagon. Birds chirp in the trees nearby and Byleth can hear the students getting breakfast in the dining hall just across the way. It smells like breaking bread, sounds familiar, and feels safe. It’s peaceful.

Jeralt heaves a sigh, which doesn’t sound very peaceful. Byleth cracks an eye open to regard him.

“Hard to think that all this goes away,” Jeralt says. His voice is quiet- they are alone, but even so, the caution is evident on his face and in his voice.

Byleth purses his lips. Jeralt isn’t wrong, necessarily. These peaceful days will not last. Of that, he is certain. Even if war was averted, this moment in time will leave, and be nothing but a sweet memory for everyone involved. And for some, it will be nothing at all, because they will be dead.

When his mouth moves, he’s not sure if he’s the one looking for the positives, or if it is Sothis, with light running through his veins as he begins to speak.

“Not all of it,” he says, hearing himself and speaking all at once, “The buildings are repaired, the people return. Garreg Mach is too alive to ever fall.”

Its foundations are death and bone and mourning- that is why it is so alive.

“Sothis?” he thinks, but she doesn’t respond.

He can feel Jeralt’s eyes on him. His intuition tells him that it is pity he’s being viewed with, and that makes his chest feel tight. It makes him both sad, and also?- quite angry.

“What did you find out?” he asks, changing the topic abruptly.

To his credit, Jeralt takes it in stride. A swig of his beer before he answers.

“Your bandit leader- his name Kostas, for the record- was an up-and-comer until we ran into him,” he explains, “Calls himself the Iron King.”

Feeling Byleth’s incredulous look, he shrugs.

“I know,” he agrees, his voice a low rumble of amusement, “Stupid nickname- but you know how it is. Just be glad you got a cool one.”

“Don’t you like the Blade-Breaker?” Byleth asks, genuinely surprised.

Jeralt scratches at the back of his neck.

“I don’t hate it,” he admits, “It just brings back a lot of memories that are… easier to ignore.”

He clears his throat.

  
“Anyway,” he says, “The Iron Gang here descended on those brats when they were away from Garreg Mach, which tells me that someone hired them to take ‘em out. We’re on the same page there.”

Byleth nods.

“I know that you know who,” Jeralt says, cautiously, “I’m still looking for someone else who saw… who. You know what thieves and mercs are like. Someone in that gang will have told some other gang they got a big score. Bragged over drinks. Fought over it. No way they didn’t, no matter how careful their leader was; and Kostas didn’t seem very careful.”

Byleth takes a swig of his beer.

“They’re in Zanado,” Jeralt continues, “Which… you know, I assume?”

Byleth nods again.

  
“Right,” Jeralt muses, “Can you bring him back here? I figure we can intimidate him into fessing up.”

Sothis stirs.

“That would mean that the others have a target sooner,” she notes.

“Sothis agrees that’s a good idea,” Byleth replies, his voice quiet.

Jeralt’s eyebrows quirk. He looks shocked to hear a direct reference to her; which Byleth understands is probably not something he ever anticipated dealing with.

“Does she? Huh. Well, thanks,” he says.

Noticing that Jeralt hasn’t touched any of the food, Byleth picks up one of the jam pastries and hands it to him.

Jeralt frowns.

“Do I have to eat this?” he asks, “I’m really not into this sort of thing.”

“Yes,” Byleth says, allowing no room to escape.

Maybe it’s wrong to wield childish power like this, but there’s something immensely satisfying about watching his father crack and take the pastry despite his protests.

After a few moments of munching, he relents.

“Those aren’t half bad,” he admits.

Byleth hums to himself, triumphant in victory.

The two men finish off their beer and lapse back into silence for a few moments. Jeralt shifts in his chair.

“You know if you want to talk about… that,” he says, “Then you can talk to me.”

Byleth nibbles another pastry- if nothing else, then to distract himself.

“Thanks,” he says, not unkindly, “But it’s better if I don’t.”

He doesn’t say that it’s too much to think about, or that it’s too painful, or at the enormity of the task before him, now he knows what’s ahead, is so deeply crushing that if he does stop to consider what’s to come and what he’s lost, he just wants to dive headfirst into a lake and never resurface.

He doesn’t need to. Jeralt nods, and after a moment, he takes a pastry purely on his own initiative.

“Well,” he says, “Sometimes we can’t not think about the things that hurt us.”

Byleth looks down, feeling the weight of such thoughts like an albatross- he inhales and picks his head back up to give his father what he hopes is a reassuring look.

Jeralt doesn’t look too reassured.

“Okay, I won’t push,” he says, lifting both palms off the table in surrender.

The sun warms Byleth’s face as he shuts his eyes and lets his head run empty. He’s grateful to feel Sothis helping with that- as anxieties creep back, he can feel her shove them away. She dusts her hands off in the echoes of his mind, and he can feel her triumphant smile.

When he opens his eyes, Jeralt is smiling back at him wistfully.

“What?” Byleth asks, with a slow blink.

“I’m proud of you,” Jeralt says, almost defensively, “Let me bask in that, would you?”  
  


“Proud?” Byleth echoes.

“You heard me,” Jeralt says, “You’ve grown into a good man, despite how I raised you.”

“You raised me well,” Byleth protests, confused at the self-depreciation.

Jeralt snorts loudly and gracelessly.

“I raised you like a wolf,” he answers, with a sad chuckle, “To hunt and to kill.”

“You taught me how to fish,” Byleth counters, “How to make tea. You bought me the coats and gloves I asked for. You didn’t mind that I didn’t want to talk much.”

His tone grows a little more intense as he leans over the table. There’s a glow about his eyes, the colour of mint.

“You raised me to be the man that I am,” he says, emphatically.

Jeralt looks away.

A bird calls from the trees above them.

“Have I ever told you that emotional intensity like this from you is… how do I say it?”

He rubs a hand over his face.

“Terrifying?”

Byleth huffs. The moment is gone, whatever it was, and Jeralt stands up.

“Don’t know where you learnt to be genuine,” he mutters, “This was nice, I gotta go. I’d rather not invite any more talking to Rhea than I have to.”

Byleth looks up at him passively.

  
“Are you… running away from this conversation?” he asks, with genuine surprise.

“No,” Jeralt lies, ruffling his hair, “See ya later, kiddo.”

Byleth watches him go.

“He really just left us here,” Sothis says, also surprised, “Your father is a strange man.”

“Mm,” Byleth murmurs, leaning back in the chair.

This would be a great place for a nap, he thinks, as the sun passes over his face again, soft and warming.

“No!” Sothis exclaims, “Don’t you dare! It w… w…-“

She stops to fight off a yawn.

“Be far too easy to…”

Byleth settles back into his seat and closes his eyes.

He’s so close to falling asleep before he suddenly rouses himself violently, startling Sothis as the chair clatters behind him.

“I have class!” he squawks, grabbing the plates and rushing off.

He gets to class before anyone else mostly due to the fact that he sprints the minute he’s on his feet. He sprints to his quarters, grabs his supplies in a hurried flurry, and then sprints to the Blue Lion’s classroom.

After throwing his books and papers on his desk, he hops over it, a jam-filled pastry in his mouth. Personally, it feels very smooth and cool.

Someone snorts behind him.

His head snaps around so quickly that it hurts.

“Sorry!” Annette squeaks.

He hadn’t noticed her where she had hunkered down at one of the front desks surrounded by a wall of books. Her head barely peaks over the top of the fort- at least until she moves one of the books hastily to give Byleth a toothy grin.

“You’re early,” he notes, kindly, before shoving the pastry in his mouth.

“Sorry!” Annette repeats, her voice rising another octave, “I just wanted to get a head start because everyone is so smart here and I need to make sure that I keep up my grades, and you gave me an idea about casting magic around corners when you were talking about positioning last week and I wanted to make sure I get a good seat and I-“

When she finally pauses in inhale, Byleth holds up a hand.

“Being early is good,” he says, moving from behind the desk to stand in front of Annette- he notes that she really is tiny, and he’s really towering over her now. He takes a step back to avoid that.

Here is an example of something that took him a few months the first time around was understanding how Annette thinks. She genuinely believes that everything she does is a fluke, and that she isn’t good enough to be at the Officers Academy, even though she is certainly the most hard-working student in the entire Academy, it is not enough; and her incredible capacity for magic and critical thinking don’t appease the demands she’s set for herself.

He knows that about her already, this time. Hopefully, that’ll make it easier to soothe the constant anxiety that seems to radiate off her in equal parts to that lovely, sunny energy.

“Snack?” he offers, grabbing another of the pastries he’d taken with him from the mostly-successful tea time with his father.

“Oh, yes please,” she says. Some of the tension in her shoulders bleeds away as he hands her a pastry. She grabs it and stuffs it into her cheeks like a squirrel. He smiles at her- and she beams back.

“Professor?” she asks, “I have a question about this formation here.”

He doesn’t point out that as she scrambles through her books, she leaves a blue-purple smear of jam across the desk.

“It’s a diagram about a formation of knights in a forest,” she says, throwing the book open.

He recognises it.

“You want to know the advantages?” he asks, leaning one hand on her desk.

“Oh, yes, but also-“

She points to a spot just behind the formation.

“What if I was to stand there behind the formation, how would I safely be able to perform magic?” she asks, “I know that magic is good against armoured enemies, so I thought, Annette, you could totally go behind these big beefy knights, but then I realised they’d be in the way? Not to mention all the trees. I don’t want to start a forest fire.”

Byleth hums.

  
“Forest fires are bad,” he says.

She looks at him with those huge eyes.

“Mm,” he adds, “Okay.”

“Professor?”

Dimitri’s voice makes him look up. He has his books tucked under his arm, and

“Also early,” Sothis notes, in his mind, “So eager is he!”

“Perfect,” Byleth says. Dimitri stops mid-step, looking rather alarmed. “Come here, Dimitri.”

Dimitri’s pace is quick in its eagerness- he’s by Byleth’s side in half an instant.

“Yes, professor?” he queries, managing a cool, calm exterior. At the very least, his voice is steady.

“Stand just here,” Byleth says.

Dimitri obeys.

“Right,” Byleth says, turning to Annette, “You want to calculate the trajectory with an arc.”

He raises one hand, a basic lightning spell sparking to life in his palm and taking a few paces away from both Annette and Dimitri.

“You can do magic?” Annette splutters.

“Mm,” Byleth replies, “A little.”

He pulls his hand back in a standard form.

“Usually, you calculate with wind variables, movement, displacement from distance,” he recites, throwing the spell. Dimitri visibly stiffens in surprise. The spell soars across the room- but before it hits the wall, Byleth waves his hand, and the spell dissipates.

“I know your form is perfect,” he adds, giving Annette an encouraging look.

“I-I-I wouldn’t say perfect,” she stammers, but she blushes at the compliment, curling a strand of hair around one finger- her other hand is busy scribbling notes.

“If you’re in a friendly backline,” he continues, walking back to the pair and putting himself behind Dimitri, “Then you want to stick as close as possible without being in range of their backswing- and without hurting them with your magic.”

He holds out one hand to guide Dimitri a few more steps forward. He is pliant underneath Byleth’s palm.

“So instead of a parabolic arc that you might want for uninterrupted long distance,” he explains, taking one step back from Dimitri, “It should be more of a lancet.”

“Are you ready?” he asks, leaning forward on his toes to whisper to Dimitri this time, “It’ll be loud.”

Dimitri does not entirely suppress his shiver.

“Yes,” he says, “I don’t startle that easily, professor.”

He decides not to point out that he had startled less than a minute before.

Byleth holds out his hand, the angle barely above Dimitri’s shoulder, and shoots the spell up. Just as he explained, it zips out, arcs up, and then drops down at an angle, leaving it just shy of hitting the wall. Or, it would have, if he didn’t dispel it.

The thunder rumbles through the room in that alien way magic does- like the air fizzling without rain.

Annette makes an appropriate sound of appreciation and awe. He’s not sure if the awe is necessary, but the look in her eyes- her hunger for knowledge- is a wonderful sight to behold.

“Again?” he asks, and she nods fiercely. He lays a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder, turning him slightly to the right.

“It’s best to communicate with your frontline,” Byleth says, as Annette takes down notes, her quill scratching against the paper, “But in the heat of battle you might not be able to.”

He does as he did before, but this time from slightly further away from Dimitri. The spell goes sharply up, and forward, and sharply down.

“When you’re prepping the spell, then you have to be very aware of where your hands are,” he says, “If your aim is too far down, you will hit the person in front of you.”

He waves his hand. The spell dissipates.

“If you’re in doubt,” he says, “Play it safe. Move further back. Just make sure you can see if you’re being flanked- and call it out to any knights.”

When he casts another look to Annette, she is fervently writing- and grabbing her books, throwing them open, eyes like saucers taking in more information, more feverish writing.

Content with that, he turns to Dimitri.

“Thank you,” he says.

“I was happy to help,” Dimitri replies, almost immediately- tripping over his words in his haste. Once he’s said it, a look of frustration crosses over his face.

“Any questions?” Byleth asks, leaning on his desk as Dimitri hurriedly goes to take his bag from where he dropped them in the walkway between the desks.

He moves to the front desk, left of Annette. Byleth knows he didn’t sit next to her since Mercedes will be.

“Um,” Dimitri supplies, unpacking books and paper, “Not at the moment.”

Byleth looks at him, mildly confused.

“You’re early,” he states, as if both men weren’t aware of this fact.

“I know,” Dimitri says, the tips of his ears turning pink. “I’m just eager to begin, professor.”

Byleth raises his eyebrows and gives him a nod, turning around to prep the lecture notes he’ll be using. As the minutes tick by, the rest of the students trickle in.

“Before we begin,” he says, as the chatter dies down, “You should know that our mission this month is to subdue some local bandits. Specifically, these are the bandits that attacked the three lords in Remire.”

Dimitri blinks in surprise.

“This isn’t official yet,” Byleth adds- he can feel Sothis watching him, her brow furrowed- “But my information is good.”

“So, we’re going to have some practical experience?” Felix not so much asks as states- “Finally.”

“Don’t be so eager to take lives,” Byleth says, neutrally, “It’s true the battle will likely require that you take a life- but take it as a lesson that it should not come to that.”

“Not very mercenary of you,” Sylvain notes, twirling his quill in his fingers.

“Mercenaries know that to fight is the last option left to a man,” Byleth answers, “Because to fight means to win or die.”

He lets that hang in the air a moment. It seems to have gotten everyone’s attention, at least. Which is what he wanted, because-

“We’re not going out there to put down bandits,” he says, “We’re going out there to find answers.”

“What answers are those, professor?” Mercedes asks, looking up at him curiously.

“Someone hired those bandits,” he says.

“It could be a great deal of people,” Dimitri says, thoughtfully, “Unfortunately, there is no lack of miscreants which could profit from the deaths of Edelgard, Claude, or myself.”

“But who would know where you would be, exactly?” he prompts. He can see that information click in Dedue’s mind, as he locks eyes with Byleth. “Even if that’s true, you were out camping. Only someone with that knowledge would have known to send them to you at that point.”

“That… is true,” Dimitri admits, brow furrowing.

“Someone in the monastery would know that,” Ashe says, “But that can’t be right.”

“Or someone with contacts inside the monastery,” Ingrid muses.

“Just keep it in mind,” Byleth says, holding up a hand, “Focus on your studies, but if you can think of anything, let me know.”

There’s a round of affirmations.

When the lesson is done, Dimitri hangs back. Byleth can feel it more than he can see it- that sixth sense which comes as Sothis floats over the classroom. He can’t see through her eyes, per say, but he knows what she knows.

Dimitri waves Dedue off- Ashe immediately jogs over to him, animated as he talks. That leaves the two of them alone in the classroom.

He stacks his books into a pile before turning around to Dimitri.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hello professor,” Dimitri says, bowing his head, “I just wanted to thank you.”

Byleth tilts his head.

“For what?” he asks, “I haven’t done anything.”

“No,” Dimitri says, utterly serious, “You have. You said you wanted to track those bandits. I didn’t even think about it, but what you said- you’re right. I thought it some random attack of chance, but it doesn’t add up.”

Byleth nods with a slight frown.

“Do you have… any suspicions?” he ventures.

Dimitri looks away.

Sothis floats down to stand next to Byleth, her hands folding over her chest.

“He suspects her,” Sothis supplies, a shade of sadness in her voice, “Even now.”

“It could be that he suspects Arundel,” Byleth replies internally, watching as Dimitri’s face is hidden by shadow.

“No,” Dimitri says, “I don’t.”

_17 th of the Harpstring Moon, Morning._

They leave two weeks earlier than last time.

This is enough to make Byleth both excited and deeply uneasy. The two emotions mix like oil and water as he slides his boots on, fastens his cape around his shoulders, and hikes the fur-lining of his outer armour closer to his neck.

He tells himself this is a good thing. They are going to retrieve Kostas and they are going to use him to reveal the Flame Emperor months earlier than previously. This will put pressure on both Edelgard and Those Who Slither in the Dark, and if they’re lucky, one or both will do something foolish.

The reason the Imperial Army crushed Garreg Mach all those years ago was because Edelgard snuck her troops in. If they had to mount a traditional assault, with the Kingdom and Alliance knowing what was coming, plus the full force of the Knights of Seiros (not scattered to the four corners purging apostates from the East and Western Churches); well, it wouldn’t have been such an easy victory.

Even thinking it through like that leaves him feel more uneasy. He doesn’t want it to even come to that. If only he could convince Edelgard not to declare war in the first place.

“Her last act was to try to kill your little prince,” Sothis says, looking around at him as he slings his sword onto his belt, “She will not be deterred. You must cease this… yammering hope you hold onto.”

“But I-“

Her eyes glow, slightly.

“Listen to me,” she says; “If you can only protect one thing, you must choose which it is.”

He sighs, raising a hand to concede the point. Sothis smiles triumphantly, floating over to him to yank at his collar. It doesn’t actually do anything, but he allows her to pull him this way and that anyway.

As he dusts himself off and opens the door to collect the Lions, it opens directly onto his father’s feet.

“Oh,” he says, surprised, “Hello, dad.”

Jeralt tries to give him a smile in return, but it’s early morning and he has never been a morning person. As such, it’s more a mild grimace including teeth. Byleth winces in response.

“Just wanted to give you a heads up,” Jeralt says, “The people I’ve been talking to said that the, uh, ‘Iron King’, has seemed different this week.”

Byleth blinks, his brow furrowing.

  
“Yeah,” Jeralt agrees, looking away, “I figured that too. But there’s no way to be sure, right?”

Byleth shakes his head.

“The disguise is flawless,” he explains, voice quiet, “But… hm.”

“I can’t stay,” Jeralt says, “But now you know. Watch out for those brats. I don’t want them getting their stupid selves hurt.”

“You care about them?” Byleth asks.

“Uh, no,” Jeralt says, “I care about you, and you’d be upset if they did.”

Byleth bumps him weakly with his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jeralt says, tired but amused, “I’m going. Good luck. Don’t die.”

He’s pulled into a rough hug before Jeralt slinks away, feet dragging, with a very long suffering yawn.

The ride to Zanado is strange. It’s a very short journey, as journeys go; it’s just east of Garreg Mach, less than a day’s trek through the Oghma Mountains. He can remember last time, as it was a mixture of tension and excitement. It’s not entirely dissimilar this time. He leads the group down the path he will later (and already has) travelled alone, drawn by Sothis’ insistence, drawn by the echo of memories just out of reach.

Maybe that’s why the chatter of the students isn’t calming. He wants to exist in the moment and listen to them but he’s too stuck in his head. Every step closer to Zanado makes him feel so…

“Professor?”

He blinks before turning his head to find Ashe looking at him with concern.

“What is it, Ashe?” he asks, clearing his throat.

“Oh,” Ashe says, “I was just… wondering if you were okay. You looked sad for a second there.”

He looks out at the sun rising over the mountains as they walk, the first rays of the day glimmering in the cold air.

“Do you know the story about Zanado?” he asks, as Ashe falls into step beside him.

“I don’t think so?” Ashe says, “It’s special to the Church though, right?”

Byleth hums.

“It’s said that the goddess came down from the heavens at Zanado,” he says, raising a hand to shield his eyes as the sun crests a peak, blinding him for a moment, “It was where her first followers established a community.”

He can hear the chatter behind him shimmer down.

“But it’s gone now,” he says, “Nemesis destroyed it. It’s just ruins.”

“How awful,” Ingrid murmurs.

“No one is meant to step foot here,” Byleth says, slowing down for a moment before pulling the students to the right of their path, closing in on their destination. “You need permission to come here.”

“I suppose bandits don’t ask permission,” Sylvain says. His voice is light, but hollow.

“No,” Byleth says, “They don’t.”

“Do you think that after what happened, the goddess went back to the heavens?” Mercedes asks, ponderously.

“Driven back by the actions of men,” Dimitri says, his voice low, “I wouldn’t blame her.”

If he closes his eyes, he can see snippets of memories. Bones being pulled from skin. Weapons plunged into screaming, pleading men. Weapons soaked in blood. Skin. Bones. Blood. It’s impossible to tell where his memories begin, and Sothis’ end.

When he opens his eyes, Zanado stretches before them, in all it’s sad glory. The ruins of the Children long since destroyed.

“I don’t know,” Byleth replies, gently, “It’s just a legend. A very old one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again my dear readers, I am alive! Officially moved into a new flat but still dealing with new appliances being fitted and old ones being taken out, work is work and I have... not had much time to write. I can't say when the next update will be, only that it will happen. I hope you are all very well and safe!


	10. CHILDREN INTO KILLERS

The Lions move as a unit, to Byleth’s pride. He takes the head as they advance up the bridge. He has long since steeled himself to the reality of skirmishes, and the reality of war. To watch the Lions grapple with it all over again-

It’s not something he enjoys reliving. Not the dark look that crosses over Dimitri’s face when one of the thieves refuses to yield, and the lance splits him down the chest. Not the pulpy mess of his intestines, the shock of red on the dusty ground, or how he can see in his eyes that he’s committing another face to memory.

_My hands are stained red._

“History is stained red,” Sothis murmurs, as Byleth keeps a watchful eye on the advance.

Felix barely blinks as his sword cuts through a man’s arm, the flash of white bone. Ingrid too reacts only in minutiae; her jaw sets, the muscles clenched. She’s not enjoying it, but she knows it must be done. Sylvain mutters a half-hearted joke, a justification on his tongue, but he seems to feel how flimsy it is and lets it drop into nothingness. Some half-uttered apology that corpses won’t hear.

Annette smiles- too caught up in the adrenaline and success to feel the impact of death until the ride home (at least, that’s how he remembers it). Dedue exhales, parrying a blow before the distinct crunch of broken bone vibrates over his arm. Mercedes clenches her fist, a sad-yet-determined look in her eyes.

Ashe’s hands shake. Of all of them, he takes it the hardest. Byleth lays a hand between his shoulder-blades, what he hopes feels comforting.

“Thank you,” Ashe murmurs, and Byleth can feel him drawing himself in tighter, steeling his resolve.

“Push ahead,” Byleth says, “Keep up the pressure.”

Desperate men fight sloppily.

He wishes they’d just go home but they won’t. They can’t run from the Knights of Seiros. It’s an unfortunate truth. Sothis was right. He can’t save everyone. Not these thieves, no matter their reasons, and maybe not Edelgard either.

Speaking of, he hasn’t seen Kostas yet.

As they get to the second bridge, he calls for the Lions to rally around him.

“Their leader should be down here,” he says, “Leave him to me.”

“Do you have a plan?” Dimitri asks, pushing his hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Knock him out and bring him to Garreg Mach,” Byleth answers, concisely.

“Is that what the knights asked you to do?” Felix ventures, sounding intrigued by this as he taps some off the blood from his sword.

“No,” Byleth says, unperturbed.

Felix’s lips curl up into a smirk. The rest of the Lions murmur in response, but no one seems to be surprised, or scandalised. No protests are offered.

“It would be better to know his true motives,” Dedue says.

They have the look of the freshly blooded. A little raw, a little shocked, a little thirsty for more. No power like the power over life and death. Shell-shocked, to some degree. They don’t realise how easily they too could be cold corpses left in the shadow of ancient ruins- not yet.

Byleth closes his eyes, readying the ever-turning wheels of time that dance behind his retinas, and advances across the bridge.

It seems normal. The bandits were clearly expecting them to split up; the fact that they don’t has three of their melee fighters out of range, three more of them in range, and two bowmen.

There’s some hesitation in the fight this time. It’s not a melee. They’re far enough away that it’s not the whites of eyes in the heat of the moment, but fully human figures, with families and feelings and beating hearts.

Ashe’s arrow goes wide. Byleth taps his elbow against Ashe’s back, and he corrects his draw position.

Three bandits charge them, Sylvain darts in and his lance leaves a fatal injury. As the man staggers, Felix glides past Sylvain and slides his sword against the man’s throat. It’s a deadly dance, and in the space between he can see them five years older, with such easy grace, never to separate again.

Blood spills out from the dying man’s quivering fingers, raised to his ruined throat. It seems cruel, but Byleth knows it’s a quick death. A three count and he’s already perished.

The other two bandits engage. Sylvain takes a solid hit. His armour dents in such a way that Byleth can see the bruising as metal and leather buckles.

“Ow,” Sylvain says, a joking tone to his voice before it grows cold, “That hurt.”

“Suck it up,” Felix says, though he pauses, watching as Sylvain stands up straight. Those eyes are keen.

The bandit swings his axe in a wide arc. Since Sylvain is injured, Byleth jumps ahead, pushing Ingrid behind him, and parries the blow. He swings his sword to duel but Dedue throws a small axe he pulled from one of the earlier bandits- it thuds heavily into the man’s leg.

He screams in pain. It’s a guttural, wild sound, and deeply unpleasant.

Wild, he rushes Byleth down but is quickly felled. The tip of Byleth’s sword slides down the man’s other thigh, up his chest; he rolls the blade around his own wrist and slices the man’s throat. Another dance, another duel, another death.

“Find peace in the embrace of the Goddess,” Mercedes murmurs, a few feet behind him. Her voice wavers, as if she is unsure of what peace dead men find.

His eyes follow Mercedes as she approaches Sylvain and heals him. Ashe is still in the back, trading fire with the enemy archers. Dedue moves to join him, shield raised. Sylvain thanks Mercedes, under his breath, Felix’s eyes scan the field with whip-sharp attentiveness. Ingrid uses Ashe’s covering fire to race across the dusty plains.

Then, where are—

Dimitri clashes against the last of the closest bandits, as the other three begin to run into striking range. He wins the struggle, locking his lance against the other man’s axe, and wrestling his weapon away.

The man looks him dead in the eyes, wild, and decides he’ll fight to the end. All he has are his hands, so he’s almost immediately impaled. It’s not an easy cut by any means, but Dimitri has his crest-borne strength and it means that vital organs and bone are naught but warm butter against his blade.

Sometimes, it’s easy to see how he became such a monster. How easily he can crush lives. The bandit goes limp instantly and slides away harmlessly, dead weight thudding to the ground.

Dimitri’s eyes are cast in deep shadows, as if he’s seeing through the ground, and into the flames below.

An arrow scrapes his arm before he pulls himself together-

“Boar!” Felix snaps, and no one will bring up how alarmed (nay, frightened) he sounds, “Pay attention!”

Dimitri jumps back, the other arrow missing him by a wide margin.

Byleth can hear Ashe pull his bow taut. This time, he hits home, as one of the archers lets out a choked noise and collapses into a heap.

Metal thrums against metal as Ingrid catches the incoming bandits, her swings wide and practiced. She fights them off with her superior reach, her eyes bright and focused. The bandits circle, and then Felix, Sylvain, and Dimitri circle them.

“Professor,” Dedue says.

“I know,” Byleth responds.

Kostas isn’t here.

Byleth sees the final archer notch another arrow, so he breaks into a sprint, bringing himself past the melee that bursts into violence, and throws a Thoron at (unfortunate) man.

Lightning streaks across the field, white-blue-green, and a low boom when it strikes. The smell of magic dances in the air.

With that he turns in a tight circle to join the fray. It’s a clutter of weapons and bodies. The most dangerous kind of fight, he thinks, his jaw tight.

Mercedes and Ashe hang back, as instructed, but Annette ignores his instructions. Ingrid and Felix clash against one of the bandits, sweat dripping down their faces, Sylvain and Dedue on another.

They are children, and like it or not, these bandits are not.

One of them raises a sword, glinting wickedly in the sun.

Annette’s sprint ends as she puts one hand on Dimitri’s shoulder, uses it to hop up so she can see over his head, and throws a spell directly into the man’s face.

Fire explodes across the field.

“Annette!” Byleth barks, skidding to a halt as black smoke obscures everything for a handful of agonising moments. His dead heart races, pounding, but he’s sure it’s a phantom pain.

As the smoke clears, everyone is (thankfully) still alive. Dimitri looks a little singed, Annette has her hand around his arm and her lips are moving very quickly. Dedue stamps out a burning ember. Ingrid pats at her arm, looking slightly shell shocked. Felix and Sylvain aren’t any worse for wear. Sylvain’s lips move and whatever joke he just made gets him a swift kick from Felix.

One of the bandits is just _gone_.

Taking a fire spell to the face will do that.

The other two square up, backs to one another, but Byleth is on the other side of this circle and he sees his opportunity to cut in. They turn to face him, ready stances, but he’s quick and practiced and old, so old, weapons run in his bones, his bones-

The spray of blood licks up his arms, hot through the material of his sleeves.

Like passing a knife through butter. Dimitri isn’t the only monster.

(Only he’s not a monster. He’s a man. You’re not.)

The final bandit raises his sword only for it to be yanked away by Dimitri’s strong hand. The young prince slams the metal down against his knee and it breaks clean in two, the severed steel throw aside.

“What,” Annette says, deadpan.

Byleth’s sword goes through the gullet of the man, distracted by the raw display of strength. It is not a clean death. For that, he feels a flicker of sympathy.

He’s not sure how he feels about it being nothing more than a flicker.

The flicker of a life extinguished.

Byleth pulls the sword free, purses his lips, and slices the man’s throat as soon as he falls. His gurgle is cut short.

Such is life. Such is death.

“This isn’t right,” Sothis says, inside his head, where he can feel her hands curling around his hands, “Be on your guard.”

He’s inclined to agree. There were a few more bandits than last time, but most importantly- no Kostas. No Kostas, despite his information.

Did someone tip him off?

Questions bounce around in his head, without any answers.

“Stay alert,” he mutters, flicking the blood off his sword in short, punctuated jabs. His eyes scan the ground. “He must be further in…”

He trails off, unsure. Part of him wants to leave the students here in case it’s too dangerous. Another part wants to take them with him, for the exact same reason.

Sothis’ presence is a comfort as his nerves grow. She floats just above him, her eyes serious, scanning the area as the Lions follow his tentative steps deeper into the ruins.

Here, a broken column lies in such ruin that no one would never know what it was used for. There, a smattering of stones and grass and flowers, their buds bright red like blood, and he-

“We’re being watched,” he notes softly, desperately wishing he had the Sword of the Creator, taking a deep breath. He doesn’t move back fast enough, though.

Someone throws a spell at him that hits his feet- but it’s a spell with enough force that he’s flung backwards at blinding speed.

“Dark Spikes!” Sothis barks, her form shimmering as she re-enters his mind.

He grits his teeth, the vertigo of being in the air forcing his mind to darker times, falling, falling as the ground crumbles, the fear and desperation on Dimitri’s face the last thing he sees before he dies-

His knee folds underneath him as he impacts the ground. It throbs dangerously. He considers, for a half-second, using the wheels that turn behind his eyes to turn that back, but no. He can’t risk it for something so minor. He’ll live, and he’s already up and running.

Consider this a test run.

Their information had been right after all.

The students scatter, which allows Byleth to see between their bodies- Kostas is there, but he’s wielding a different weapon.

It’s an axe of black metal with the lines of glowing runes etched along it. Nothing especially strange in and of itself, but he knows what that weapon means. It means that something is already amiss. That isn’t a blade by any ordinary smith; no, it’s just like the blade that killed Jeralt.

There can be no doubt. Those Who Slither in the Dark have gotten themselves involved. Do they know what has come to pass, that Byleth isn’t the right version of himself? Or is it simply bad luck that they grabbed Kostas this time? Is anything set in stone?

No time to think. Act, and act now.

The Lions, now scattered, look around wildly through the dust that has been kicked up.

“Ashe, Annette!” Byleth commands, “Focus the mage!”

No idea where said mage is. He’ll just have to trust that they can find out without him. He must draw Kostas’ attention. He was a pain in the ass ordinarily, but now he has a powerful, unknown weapon, and perhaps the additional help of whatever Those Who Slither in the Dark have done to him. Potentially.

Kostas moves fast. As Byleth rushes across the ruins, Kostas does too. Dedue, perhaps the least disorientated by the attack, meets the advance and blocks his blow before it can rend Byleth’s arm from his shoulder. The clash leaves an eerie ringing, which echoes through the empty space.

There is such an oppressive air here. It is as if the density of memories is pushing in the very air itself, begging to be acknowledged. Remember me, remember us.

Kostas’ eyes aren’t wild. They aren’t the furious eyes of a man who has taken all his life and suddenly been denied, but cold and empty and hollow.

“Byleth,” Sothis says, and he can’t read her tone at all.

Rallying, he can see out of the corner of his eye as Dimitri readies himself.

“No!” he snaps, “Watch the backline!”

You can’t keep him out of the fight forever. Or out of danger. He’s your best bet. He can help.

Byleth throws a Thoron at Kostas, forcing him to leap backwards. His feet skid against the earth for a few moments, enough that Byleth can suck in another breath and readjust the grip on his sword, but by then Kostas is on his feet and running at him. Dedue got the message, at least, as the sounds of a melee break out behind, and all around them.

Reinforcements? No time to look around and check. The foreign blade slams against his own, and some sick part of him rejoices.

A real fight, it crows, with bitter hands that wrap around his wrists as he throws his weight to the side, pushing Kostas off balance. It’s not enough for an opening; he still must duck to avoid the wicked swing of that black axe. A real fight, it howls, as he catches an elbow to the jaw which fills his mouth with blood, and he doesn’t dodge in time as the axe slams into his chest, cutting two gashes across his chest. A real fight, it screams, like a demon. He brings his sword through the gap in their bodies and catches Kostas cheek. A flash of teeth, but it’s nothing more than cosmetic damage.

The two men spring apart.

To Byleth’s surprise, an arrow cuts right past his own cheek and hits dead centre, right in Kostas gut. The man lets out a surprised, and pained groan, hand reflexively coming down to the feathered shaft before he yanks it out. Instinct, sure, but it’ll do more damage than good.

“Nice shot,” Byleth notes.

His compliment is lost in the din. The smell of magic, a rumble in the ground, and a low boom. He wheels around, breath caught in his throat. So much dust, and he turned around and exposed his back like an idiot- he barely has time to block Kostas’ swing-

“We’re fine!” Ingrid yells, strained to loud enough to be heard through the melee-

“We got this!” Sylvain continues.

They don’t sound fine, but Byleth doesn’t have the time to spare. Haha, haha, hah.

He relinquishes his block, letting Kostas’ swing slice down his arm. It’s a hot shock as the skin splits under his armour- but now he’s close enough to retaliate, slashing him across the middle. It’s a deep wound. Not immediately deadly, though.

“Which is good,” Sothis says, “Because we want to bring him in, yes?”

“Oh, right,” he thinks back, bringing the back of his hand over his forehead to wipe away the grimy sweat that has accumulated there.

Kostas’ face splits into a very wide smile. It reminds Byleth of a snake, or perhaps a masquerade mask. Those leering eyes, the too-wide smile. It’s all fake.

“You’re pathetic,” Kostas says.

It’s still (technically) his voice. The same hoarse, angry voice that Byleth heard in Remire twice over, but the tone is all wrong. It’s too matter of fact. It’s not a man from the dirt who rolls around in it. It’s too clipped, too personal, too in-control.

Byleth doesn’t respond, instead moving as Kostas does, the two men circling one another again.

“You and your kin,” Kostas says, “We will free the world of your stink.”

He can feel Sothis shift in his mind. Not angry but listening intently, her hair a halo around his, her power a balm over his, even as his blood begins to dry on the minor wounds he’s been dealt.

“Only then can humanity be free,” Kostas says.

“Really?” Byleth asks, fighting the urge to look around, behind them, for the Lions. No one is screaming, or sobbing, so he hopes that means no one is dead. He doesn’t want to do this again. He’s filled with a bone-deep sense of exhaustion. It is as if even this conversation has been had before, even when it’s one of the few that hasn’t.

“It’s in your blood to control us,” Kostas says, scornfully, “You cannot deny your nature.”

“Your control is better?” Byleth replies, coolly.

“When you are gone,” Kostas says, “We won’t need to.”

He sounds like he believes it. He sounds just like-

  
“Edelgard,” Sothis says, in his ear, “It sounds like Edelgard.”

I will do what must be done, and when it is done, I will disappear from history. Because humanity will be free.

“But how many bodies will fall before that?” Byleth says, his voice growing colder, “You just want power for yourself-“

Kostas moves.

Byleth’s sword clangs against his wicked axe, the two men struggling. He yields that, using his other hand to grab Kostas by the face and throwing him off balance, bringing the sword up to parry another blow, and again.

Bringing him in alive is going to be difficult.

Byleth readies another Thoron and releases it in Kostas’ face. The sound makes his ears ring, hard, but the man lies in a heap, several feet away.

He jumps back up to run over the prone man, but before he can get there, someone else teleports in.

It’s not Thales. And he’s not sure if he’s relieved or furious at that. He doesn’t recognise the woman, nor the mask she wears, but she grabs the crumpled form that is/was Kostas and looks Byleth dead in the eyes.

They’re pale, milky. Pink. Like a rose that is clinging to life. He’s not sure where the poetry comes from, but it’s all he can think. He has the strongest urge to crush every flower-

“Professor!” Annette yells.

“Demon,” the woman in the mask says, “Your days are numbered.”

Although he reaches out to the spinning wheels of time, he knows before Sothis even says anything that it’s useless. Some things are set in stone.

But stones can be moved.

“Pick your battles,” Sothis says, unblinking.

He lets the moment slip through like sand. The woman in the mask teleports away with Kostas.

No-

The gears begin to ache and turn, and he lets the feeling reverberate through his bones. Just a few seconds backwards, he forces himself to break into a sprint and grab at the pair. The woman blinks, surprised, and teleports away; but this time, Byleth’s hands come away with a prize.

The shiny black axe, glowing and pulsating irregularly.

He swallows the urge to throw the weapon into the abyss and slips it onto his belt instead. Glances up to the Lions and runs over.

There are four more bodies on the ground. A fifth, a ways off, presumably the mage.

“Injuries?” he asks, slowing down as he gets to the group.

“Nothing too serious,” Sylvain replies, “I don’t think.”

There are scattered confirmations: Annette is a little teary, leaning on Mercedes and favouring her left leg, Ingrid is wrapping up Ashe’s forearm, and Dedue has a rapidly developing bruise on his lip. They’re all covered in dust and blood, mostly not their own. It makes Byleth feel several things. He doesn’t like any of them.

Not even the sense of home that the battle-weary bring.

“Professor,” Mercedes says, drawing his attention, “You’re hurt.”

He blinks.

Right.

His knee throbs, his cheek is no doubt bruised, there’s two slices in his chest, and his arm has a single cut running from his mid-forearm to his mid-bicep.

“I’m fine,” he says, not entirely a lying. It looks worse than it is, and whilst it hurts, he has endured such greater pains that this feels like an inconvenience. “Heal everyone else first.”

Mercedes’ lip wobbles at that, a frown forming on her face, but she doesn’t argue back.

“I will heal you,” she says, kindly and firmly.

Byleth nods, flashing the group a small smile (he hopes) before beginning to lead them back to the mouth of the canyon.

It doesn’t take long before someone speaks up.

“Who was that?” Ashe asks, sounding more subdued than usual.

“I was thinking the same,” Dimitri echoes, as Byleth steps over the now-cold corpse of one of the bandits they felled first, “Someone teleported in, did they not?”

“Yes,” Byleth answers, ruminating on how much to divulge.

I don’t want to put them in danger, he thinks, glumly.

“They will be in danger no matter what”, Sothis says, not unkindly.

“I smell a conspiracy,” Sylvain says, “And that you were right, professor.”

Byleth wonders, not for the first time, if it’s cheating to be right when you’ve been here before.

“Mm,” he answers, in lieu of anything else.

The axe on his belt feels unnaturally heavy as he walks. As they reach the narrow path that leads back to Garreg Mach, he feels a tug at his sleeve, and Mercedes slowing him down.

“Your knee,” she says, her voice as sweet as ever, “Slow down. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Another _fine_ forms on his lips but he can see it in her wide, surprisingly knowing eyes, that she’s not going to let it go.

“And you’re hurting yourself,” Sothis chides, “For no reason!”

He relents as Mercedes presses a hand against his knee, and some of the torn ligaments mend together. As he begins to walk again, the ache turns into a twinge.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. Mercedes inclines her head. Her smile is minor, barely there. He can see the exhaustion in her eyes- in all of their eyes.

The adrenaline is cooling off, the highs of combat waning, leaving the bruising, and the blood. Worse, there’s time. Time to think. To consider what’s happened. The faces of the damned.

“Your highness,” Dedue says, as Dimitri walks, eyes on the ground. He doesn’t respond immediately, and Byleth doesn’t need to look at him to know why.

A moment passes.

“Sorry,” Dimitri says, distracted, “Yes? Is everything alright?”

Dedue’s brow draws together. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t need to. Dimitri looks away, either ashamed, angry, or neither- his hands curl into fists and uncurl, the soft leather of his gloves now dirty.

“You all did well,” Byleth says, his voice a little roughly. He clears his throat, coughs, pushes his hair away from his face, where it’s twisted with sweat. “We’ll be home soon.”

It’s not the rousing, congratulatory speech that he should give. Or that they perhaps deserve. Or not. These men had mothers. Fathers. Siblings, perhaps, friends, maybe. But they attacked first. Trespassed on sacred ground. Dared to disturb the resting place of my children-

“Byleth,” Sothis says, interrupting his thoughts before the landslide really takes him away, “Stop it.”

He does.

The walk home feels long, but they get back as the sun is beginning to set. They’ve not only made great time, but succeeded in Rhea’s commands, and sort-of succeeded in his own personal hopes. Sure, he didn’t manage to bring Kostas in, but he has proof that Those Who Slither in the Dark have a hand in the events that are about to unfold.

“I’ll leave the report to Lady Rhea in your hands,” Dimitri says, as they walk through the entrance hall. He seems a little more put-together now we’ve all rested and changed, Byleth thinks, watching him out of the corner of his eye. When Dimitri looks over, he nods.

“Get some rest,” Byleth says.

“I will,” Dimitri replies, with a small, tired smile, before his eyes look past Byleth.

Oh, right. He remembers this.

He turns around to follow Dimitri’s eyeline, and finds Edelgard talking with Manuela. This time, however, Dimitri stays silent. Byleth leans his weight to the side, away from his strained knee, and takes a small step closer to the prince.

Manuela looks up and meets Byleth’s eyes. He watches as her expressions goes from coquettish to concerned as she takes in two of them, still a little worse for wear after their trek back to Garreg Mach.

“Hello professor,” she says, “Your highness. Is everything alright?”

Edelgard looks across at them. Her eyes look so innocent, pale violets; she takes a step closer, almost tentative, before something comes over her. A strength, the mask she wears, and her back goes ramrod straight. It’s incredibly subtle, but Byleth is looking for it.

“You fought with the bandits in Zanado, I take it?” Edelgard says, eyes flicking across them.

“We did,” Dimitri confirms, “Thank you for your concern, Professor Manuela, but we are quite alright.”

The way he looks at Edelgard speaks volumes. It feels like prying, and he supposes it is, because he can see right through it, all of it. He can see the memories, the pining, the desperate hope that she might remember- and the hatred of himself for it. How he hopes she won’t, because he’s not the little boy she left behind, he’s an empty shell, a vessel for vengeance.

He can see inside Dimitri’s mind, and a little into Edelgard’s. How she doesn’t understand Dimitri’s concern as he opens his mouth and imparts advice, how she counters by shooting it down, almost offended by it, uncomprehending that he worries for her safety when she has been sending bandits after his head.

She sent them.

“Don’t forget that,” Sothis warns, a whisper in his mind before she curls up, and sleeps.

He wishes he could sleep.

“If I’ve offended you,” Dimitri says, “then I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, a flash of confusion, retaliation, I don’t need your help or anyone’s. A knife to the chest.

“We should be off,” Manuela says, kindly, perhaps sensing the shape of something unsaid between the two royals, “Don’t worry about little old us.”

She ushers Edelgard away- not that she needs much ushering, striding away with her head held high, inscrutable as ever.

Dimitri hums as she leaves, looking away in thought. Byleth knows not to prod, not to pry, but he does feel some sense of shame at already knowing. Even if he can’t help what he knows.

“She’ll be fine,” Byleth says, quietly.

Dimitri straightens up, almost as if surprised by the comment. He continues to look away for a few moments before he looks back at Byleth. When he does, his eyes are sad, openly so.

And then it’s gone, hidden away like so many other things.

“I know,” he replies, “It’s not that… I’ll tell you some other time, I think.”

Byleth nods, raising a hand to lightly press his palm against Dimitri’s back. He hopes it’s not crossing some boundary. Dimitri blinks, the muscles in his back twitching even under the tiniest amount of contact, but then he chuckles, tired and a little embarrassed.

“No rush,” Byleth says, surprising himself as the words leave his lips. It’s an assurance he means, even if it does come out before he can internally verify if saying that is okay.

“You worry too much,” Sothis complains, rapping her knuckles against his skull, “He thinks the sun’s rays shine from your a-“

“Thank you,” Dimitri says, shaking himself from his surprise, “You’re too kind, professor.”

He walks a few steps away before turning around and dipping into a small bow. If such an action hurts any of the bruising that’s hidden under bandages and clothes, he doesn’t show it.

When he leaves, Byleth closes his eyes.

He doesn’t need to report to Lady Rhea until tomorrow. He should rest. But the memory of Zanado is now fresh in his mind- and the memories are old, too, the faintest impression of Sothis’ children being slaughtered and used for parts. And now, corpses, from five years ago and from right now.

All of it is blending together into a pile of bodies and he can’t distinguish their faces anymore. But more pressingly than his own woes: the weight on his hip of Kostas’ axe. Proof positive of Those Who Slither in the Dark, right here, in his hands. It may also be dangerous, considering what Kronya’s dagger did to Jeralt. An instant death.

A pang wraps its way around his chest.

It’s okay, he tells himself, Jeralt is alive.

He forces his feet to move, down the hall, up the stairs, through into the audience chamber. Asks for Rhea and waits.

“Wait,” Sothis says, faintly and then louder, “Wait, wait, wait!”

She appears in front of him in a shimmer of light, her eyes wide.

  
“What do you think you’re doing!” she exclaims, “Have you lost your mind? I thought we agreed Rhea was not to be trusted!”

“You said ‘err on the side of caution’,” Byleth notes, mildly, “That the choice was mine?”

“It is,” Sothis agrees, “I thought you would warn me!”

“I’m warning you now?” Byleth offers, lamely.

“Ugh!” Sothis exclaims, “You are ridiculous.”

Despite her outcry, she settles down, figuratively and literally; she floats down to the ground, her feet seeming to touch the perfect stone floors.

“I need her help,” Byleth murmurs, “I want to trust her.”

Sothis looks up at him. Her eyes are sorrowful, frighteningly so.

“I want that as well,” she says, “But you are a stranger, bringing the worst news she could hear. You will prove to her that humanity is not to be trusted.”

She reaches up to grasp Byleth’s shoulders.

“If you go in there and tell her that the Adrestian Empire is to march on her home,” she says, “Then she will kill the little princess here and now. She may even kill the little prince and duke.”

Byleth blinks.

  
“Do you really think she would do that?” he asks, genuinely concerned and thrown.

“I do not know,” Sothis urges, “Which is my very point. She is… she is my only daughter. Everyone else is gone.”

Everyone else is gone.

“Not everyone,” Byleth counters, though deflated, “What about Seteth and Flayn?”

“I do not think they are the same as Rhea,” Sothis answers, thoughtfully, “Do with my words as you will.”

Byleth hums, rubbing at his chin with one hand as he wanders in the corridor. The ache in his legs is nothing compared to the ache in his soul, and nothing compared to the ache in his chest when he’s told to enter and walks towards Rhea.

The way the light enters through the stained glass, her very skin seems to glow. These days, though, he thinks the glow comes from the inside. When she sees him, he can see her eyes soften, and the mixture of emotions that he feels, some his and some Sothis, makes him debate turning back time and running away from this meeting.

“So,” she says, “You have safely disposed of those bandits.”

She clasps her hands together and bows her head.

“I pray that their souls find salvation,” she murmurs.

Do you? he wonders, Do I?

When she looks up, her eyes narrow thoughtfully. Behind them, he can see the mind of someone truly ancient, a genius, experienced and wise.

“But- Why did they target the students to begin with? We must further investigate the true cause of all that took place. Until we know more, I ask that you support the students and relieve them of any unnecessary worry.”

She smiles at him. He tries to smile back.

“To that end,” he says, feeling awkward and exposed, “The bandit leader was different. He sounded and acted differently to Remire.”

“Oh?” Rhea asks, “How so?”

“Cold,” Byleth answers, “He spoke of freeing humanity and called me a demon.”

Rhea’s eyes are the cold ones, right now. He’s glad the chill isn’t aimed at him.

“They must be quite mad,” she answers.

“He had this,” Byleth adds, a little desperately, unhooking the axe from his belt. He holds it out to Rhea- to look at, if not take. Something about the idea of her taking it makes him feel uneasy.

“Did he?” she echoes, her voice chilly, bright green eyes narrowed. He can feel that, the whole weight of it; “there, of all places,” she adds, under her breath.

He can feel Seteth’s presence, even if the man himself is hidden, or trying to be.

“Lady Rhea,” Byleth says, taking in a breath, “May I… speak freely?”

Sothis shimmers overhead, watching him.

“Of course,” Rhea says.

“I think that someone is targeting the students,” Byleth explains, “Specifically the heads of houses. The bandits in Remire knew where to find them. They must be funding them, somehow. This weapon isn’t like anything else.”

Rhea looks at him. Her eyes really do coax truth, he thinks, as she looks right through him, down to the meat of his soul.

“I agree,” she muses.

“I want to protect them,” Byleth adds, “That’s all I want.”

Rhea’s eyes soften.

There is no one else.

He is, in a way, the sole survivor. The only one who can stop what’s fast approaching. The only one who knows what’s at stake.

“I know,” she says, softly, and he feels some ancient stirring in his soul, “Thank you for bringing this to my attention- I will look into it. We will continue this when next we meet.”

She takes a step closer, surprising them both. Whatever possessed her to do so quickly retreats, as the soft look in her eyes evaporates, and hides again.

“You may go,” she says, and Byleth wonders if he’s imagining the apologetic tone in her voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!
> 
> I missed you, my dear readers! I'm nearly done with my thesis (HUZZAH) and finding myself so nearly free from that particular shackle filled with me with such elation that I was able to crack this puppy open once again. My deepest apologies for disappearing on you. The fic is not dead, long live the fic, etc etc.
> 
> I won't make any promises to update schedules right now, since the thesis beast hasn't been entirely slain, but once again, the update shall come, rain or shine.
> 
> Thanks for reading, as always! <3


	11. I CHASE YOUR SHADOW

_19th of the Harpstring Moon, Morning._

Before the students even take their seats, Byleth can sense their unasked questions, hovering in the space between them. It’s like the web of a spider, unseen but taut. He can feel every string that stirs.

“Professor,” Annette pipes up, and he could have taken a bet that it would be Annette who would have the moxie to speak first, “Did you find out anything about that spooky axe?”

The answer is a solid yes. And a solid no. He’s still unsure on if he should tell Rhea everything- and how he would even do that. It may have worked with Jeralt, but Jeralt is Jeralt. He’ll take a lot on faith, even when he claims he won’t, because he’s a good man.

Rhea is a good woman. Dragon? Dragon woman. She’s good. She might even believe Byleth’s words, since she clearly believes that they have the potential to become Sothis, or something of that ilk. But what she would do with that information is an unknown.

He wants to believe Rhea is on their side. He does believe it, to some extent. She wants peace. She doesn’t want the Empire to rise up, she doesn’t want Those Who Slither in the Dark to rise up, and she doesn’t want Garreg Mach to fall.

But what would she do? Would she take Edelgard’s head- and then Dimitri’s, and Claude’s, just to be safe?

Would she storm to those Who Slither in the Dark’s as yet unknown base and bring them out of the woodwork?

Are they ready for that?

No. For now, it’s better that he keeps what he knows to himself. Himself and his father, anyway.

He shrugs, unsure of how to answer.

Annette pouts, likely unknowingly. The rest of the Lions murmur in agreement of her pout.

“It’s not like anything anyone has ever seen,” Byleth says, slowly, “Which tells us that… it’s someone else.”

Does that make sense?

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Felix notes, astutely.

Ingrid elbows him in the chest.

“I know,” Byleth agrees.

“Do you… have an idea? About who it is?” Ashe asks, and as their eyes look, he knows that the young boy is seeing right through him. It’s strange, in its own way. Ashe does have the eyes of an archer. Archers don’t miss a thing.

Byleth swallows.

“Oh, you do!” Mercedes exclaims, then clasps a hand over her mouth in surprise at her own outburst.

“There’s some… old books,” Byleth says, awkwardly, “They talk about an underground group of some kind with foreign smithing and magic.”

“A conspiracy theory?” Sylvain says, “I didn’t think you’d be the type, professor!”

“It’s just a theory,” Byleth replies, lightly.

“It’s no worse than any other,” Dimitri interjects kindly.

He shifts in his seat, hands folded on the desk in front of him. Prim and proper. He smiles when Byleth meets his eyes, and Byleth finds himself wanting to smile back. He hopes it shows in his eyes.

“May I ask where you found these books?” Dimitri asks.

“Oh,” Byleth says, with a blink, “Uh.”

He can’t say the Abyss-

Sothis stirs in his mind, with a yawn. He can feel her look through his eyes for a moment before his mouth begins to move with her words.

“They were restricted books,” Byleth says, “I found them before Seteth disposed of them. I don’t think they exist anymore.”

And then his words are his own again.

“Did you just use me to lie?” he thinks.

“Duh,” Sothis replies, unfazed.

“I see,” Dimitri says, a little downcast.

“Now,” Byleth says, clearing his throat, “We’re going over terrain cover today. So, when there’s trees or dense fog-“

_25th of the Harpstring Moon, Midday._

“Did you send my message?”

Jeralt lets out a disgruntled huff before he leans back on his heels, casting a glance over his shoulder at Byleth, hovering in the doorway.

“Yes, I did,” he says, dryly, “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Byleth says, also dryly.

Jeralt grunts and waves a dismissive hand as Byleth enters the room, Sothis trailing just behind. She floats overhead to run her immaculate fingertips over the books stacked up high, reading their spines with silent curiosity.

“Why are you so intent on talking to this Lonato guy anyway?” Jeralt asks, looking at Byleth sidelong.

“He’s Ashe’s father,” Byleth answers, walking around the sofa to stand at Jeralt’s desk, “And he’s going to rebel against the church.”

Jeralt blinks, then turns his wide eyes to Byleth. A few seconds and it turns to resignation, acceptance, understanding.

He accepts things surprisingly quickly.

“Yeah?” Jeralt offers, “Why’s that?”

Byleth looks off to the side, out the window to the grounds below. It’s a sunny day right now, but the clouds threaten the rains which will sweep in next month.

He remembers the rain, and the fog. Lonato was a huge man, perhaps not in stature but in presence, like a titan refusing to back down. Ashe had begged him to stop. Back then, Byleth didn’t understand what could drive a man to turn his back on such a powerful institution, turn his back on his family.

But that was before he saw Jeralt die. Before he saw his students die, over and over. Before he saw what became of Dimitri- what could have become of him, too.

He understands now. It doesn’t mean it has to end the same way.

“The Church executed his son,” he says, looking back around to Jeralt.

Jeralt stiffens, ever so slightly. It’s subtle, but Byleth sees it all the same. A hitch in the spine as he pushes the papers around his desk with his index finger, falsely casual.

“I don’t blame him,” Byleth murmurs, casting a quick glance at the doorway, “But I don’t want… I don’t want it to happen again.”

Jeralt stops pushing his papers around and turns to face Byleth.

“What did you say to him?” he asks.

“That I want to talk,” Byleth responds, as Sothis floats away from the bookcase and over to the pair.

Jeralt raises his eyebrows.

“That’s it?” he asks.

Byleth nods, unfazed.

Jeralt’s lips quirk into something like a smile before he hides it.

“You’re an optimist, kid,” he notes, fondly, “I don’t know where you get it from, but you are.”

Byleth shrugs back, unsure of how to answer that particular accusation.

“When he answers,” he says, instead, “I need the Knights to stay away.”

Jeralt looks at him, his smile replaced by a frown.

“You want me to help with that, I take it?” he says, not really a question, “I can try, but that’s asking a lot.”

“I know,” Byleth says, taking a step closer, “I’m sorry.”

The anxiety trembling under the surface must show to some degree. To everyone else, he may be a blank, emotionless doll, but his father reads him like a book. Maybe it’s the twitch of his fingers, or a look in his eyes. He does feel like a hare, harried by foxes.

And like a fox, chasing hares.

“Don’t apologise,” Jeralt says gruffly, slinging an arm over his shoulder, “I’ll do my best.”

Byleth leans into it, resting his forehead against the worn fur of Jeralt’s coat.

“But-” Jeralt adds, “I’d really think over your plan. I don’t know this man, but I know what it’s like to be a father. If someone- something had happened to you, well…”

He trails off. Byleth blinks up at him questioningly.

“I wouldn’t change my mind,” he says, “I’d hunt down whoever hurt you. Even if it didn’t make sense. Even if it was the Church.”

“Dad,” Byleth murmurs, perturbed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jeralt replies, breaking the moment as he lets go off Byleth and flicking him on the arm as he does, “It won’t come to that. I hope.”

_27th of the Harpstring Moon, Morning._

He’s in the kitchens before the sun rises, once again.

Sothis yawns loudly as Byleth shakes the hair from his eyes and continues to roll out the dough for more jam tarts. These ones are peach with a dusting of lavender sugar, making them floral and spring-like and an absolute pain in the ass to make.

But it’s Mercedes birthday, so he can spare no expense.

“Must you rise so early?” Sothis complains, “The warmth of the sun isn’t even here yet!”

He doesn’t bother responding to that. It’s not like he ever sleeps well anyway. His nights are dogged by nightmares- if you can call memories nightmares. He sees the timelines where someone slips, misses their shot, and gets an arrow through the throat. The one that has settled on his mind like silt is a memory of it happening to Mercedes. A sharpshooter cutting through their ranks. He was such a fool to not realise she was in range of that man’s arrow, and it was because of his own foolish actions, his lack of attentiveness, that he has that memory.

It pierces the side of her jugular, sending a spout of blood out at a sharp diagonal. Her surprise is evident, the perfect circle of an ‘oh’ as crimson splatters on the ground, her weight shifting backwards, one foot, then the other, before another arrow pierces her heart.

He didn’t hesitate to turn that back. He couldn’t bear to see anyone’s reactions to it, even if some horrible part of him was curious. That’s the problem, one of many. When you are gifted powers like what Sothis holds, everyone becomes dolls, don’t they? Even if their lives matter, even if he would die for them a thousand times, he holds their futures in his hands.

Blinking, he realises he’s kneaded the dough more than enough and goes about putting a generous amount of filling into each tart.

Is this what became of Rhea? Even if she cannot turn back time, she holds powers that no human has. With enough time, would he become the same, so fanatically devoted that he would discard lives without a second thought? And who would be his Sothis? Who is it that he would pursue, in his grief, until the ages have forgotten whose bones it is that he clings to?

“You already know the answer to that,” Sothis says, her voice gloomy, filling the confines of his mind and of the room around them, “Or are you really that dense?”

He slides the tarts into the oven before pausing, the low hum of heat, looking down at his hands, flour clinging to his fingertips.

For the things which she has done, Rhea is still human- human to mean compassionate. Human to mean caring. Human to mean that she keeps trying, and trying, and trying. Even when trying means creating more dolls like me. Soulless, hollow things to be filled.

“You can’t still think that about yourself-“

Sothis’ protests are silenced as the doors swing open to reveal Annette with her books held tight against her chest.

“Mm! I smell something yummy!” she sing-song, going to twirl on the spot but tripping over her own feet and barely catching herself before she drops all of her books.

“They’re for Mercedes,” Byleth answers, swatting Annette’s hand away as she goes to open the oven.

_31st of the Harpstring Moon, Morning._

His attempts to find out what has changed in this timeline are slow going. That’s the problem. He knows that Those Who Slither in the Dark have a base, somewhere, and that they have access to weapons and powers that are unlike anything on the surface. But he does not know where. He only knows a little about Thales. So he is forced to scour every single report, and send extra men out, anyone who can be bought, their mercenary connections, to see if there’s any reports of black-cloaked mages with weapons that kill on contact.

Doing nothing makes him feel antsy. The extra weight on his shoulders is painful, because he already knows that plenty of tragedies will play out even without changed actions from Those Who Slither In the Dark. One of them, the soonest, is the one he hopes to avert.

Maybe it will be for naught. Maybe it’s naïve. But he has to try.

He catches the gossip of the stable hands as he tacks up the black mare he chooses. There are rumblings out of Gaspard. The local merchants have scattered, and now the rumours are that a militia is rising. The stable hands wonder if the militia is going to drive out the local bandits- Lord Lonato is a well-loved leader, after all, and if anyone will care about the plight of the common man, their crops torched by ne’er-do-wells, it would be him, surely?

His teeth catch on his lip in a frown, chewing thoughtfully at that information. It’s not like he expected his letter to make Lonato reconsider his actions immediately, but that he’s rallying troops already, far earlier than last time, is worrying. Does he think I’m coming as an agent of the Church?

That could be it. If so, it might turn into a hostage situation, if not an all-out slaughter.

“Men’s minds cannot be so easily changed,” Sothis notes, “Just because you think you have all the answers does not mean he will listen to them.”

“I don’t think that,” Byleth counters, not unkindly, climbing onto the saddle. Sothis floats just above him as he leads the mare out, trotting across the flagstone of Garreg Mach before exiting into a well-worn dirt path.

He’s very thankful that the Knights are nowhere to be seen. Whatever Jeralt has done to distract them, it’s worked. No one follows him as he leaves the safety of his home.

“He has suffered a terrible injustice,” Sothis continues, thoughtfully, “A son taken- and a lie as to why.”

“Would it change if he knew the true reason?” Byleth says, softly, turning the mare in the direction of Gaspard and squeezing his thighs together to urge her forward. “Christophe is still dead.”

“But what he died for,” Sothis supplies, from Byleth’s own thoughts, “Is what matters.”

“True,” Byleth murmurs, “He didn’t die to incite Duscur. He died trying to assassinate Rhea.”

“Perhaps,” Sothis says, “Or perhaps it was not so personal.”

His knowledge of the Western Church is hazy at best. An offshoot of the Central Church which believes Rhea and the Knights of Seiros to be corrupt, an affront to the goddess. To him, it just reeks of the sort of internal, noble-brand politics which cowards always hire mercenaries to enact for them. Lonato is being manipulated by them, and perhaps Christophe was too, and the Western Church itself is being manipulated by Those Who Slither In The Dark.

It’s enough to make your head hurt.

“Do not dwell on the semantics,” Sothis dismisses, smacking his head lightly, “We must convince the old man not to fight. If only so you do not grow so sad over the archer boy’s tears.”

“Ashe,” Byleth says, knowing that Sothis knows that already, “His name is Ashe.”

The journey doesn’t take long enough for his liking. By the time he gets to the border of Gaspar, the sun is coming through the clouds in hazy rays. It’s humid, and yet still a chill lingers in the air. It tastes almost electric on his tongue, as if his very biology can sense the powder keg of tension that is about to explode if something doesn’t neutralise it.

There’s just one figure standing on the horizon as he approaches. It’s a fifty fifty shot if there’s more men in the shadows of the trees, waiting to pounce on him once he lowers his guard, but he really can’t spend too much time thinking about that.

Mercenary instincts are hard to ignore though, and the instincts of a war-leader even harder. His mind, his gut, screams for him to stay on his horse, draw a weapon with a long reach, and charge immediately. That is why he must do the exact opposite, and make himself as non-threatening as he can, without sacrificing his own integrity.

He jumps down from his horse and dusts himself off, walking across the clearing to greet the man clad in heavy armour who gaze feels very much like a knife.

“Lord Lonato,” he says.

Lonato heaves a heavy, weary sigh before he dismounts his own horse- to Byleth’s surprise. Despite all that armour, it won’t stop a sword through the jugular, nor would it stop a point-blank magical attack. He’s slow, even more so on foot. These thoughts crowd Byleth’s vision, alongside the memories of the man raising his lance to a group of children, who don’t even want to fight him, but if that was what it took to avenge his own son, he would kill them, all of them-

“You,” Lonato answers, his voice low and neutral, “Must be Byleth Eisner.”

His teal eyes are icy. He doesn’t take a step closer, but it also feels like it. As if he is looming.

“Are you an agent of that witch?” he says, and it doesn’t really sound like a question, “If so, I will hear nothing of what you have to say.”

They’re about two metres apart, slightly too far to be comfortably conversing. Outside of the range of a sword, lance, or axe. They’d both have to remount. 

“I’m not here for that,” Byleth answers, wishing for the thousandth time that he had the Sword of the Creator’s strange weight against his hip.

Lonato’s eyebrows move upwards, just a little.

“I find myself surprised then,” he says, slowly, “I have my reasons for pursuing the Central Church- their wickedness is obvious-“

He cuts himself off, raising a hand as if to dismiss his own words.

“But you- be you opportunist or simple dissenter, make no mistake. We are not the same.”

Byleth stands passively, rays of sunshine passing them by as the clouds move past, driven by high winds above.

“I am here because I care about the people,” Byleth answers, simply.

Sothis comes into being, settling down next to Byleth. She fists her hands on her hips, jutting her chin at Lonato, as if she can intimidate him even in her invisibility.

“Do you now?” Lonato echoes, with a hint of sarcasm running along his words.

It’s interesting to watch him. Of course, he didn’t have the opportunity to observe the man at all before now.

It’s interesting, because his son is extremely emotive. Ashe wears his heart on his sleeve, gesturing with his hands, sliding his weight from foot to foot, beaming when he’s happy and crying when he’s sad. Even after their years apart, when it was tempered, he could never hide how he was feeling, not really. It always showed through, in the tightness of his lips, or his spine.

Lonato is the same. His face might be mostly blank, but there’s a frown hidden under his moustache, and a story in the rigidity of his posture. He’s not frightened of this meeting. He’s resolute. And yet, somehow, Byleth can feel it in his gut that he doesn’t want to do what he’s going to any more than anyone else wants him to. 

“What do you want?” Byleth asks, remembering to blink as the wind blows at the grass around their feet.

Lonato sneers at the question with a true ferocity.

“I want my son back,” he bites out, “But the dead do not rise again- so I will take instead.”

Those simple words ring in their surroundings, around the trees. Sothis looks away and up at the sun. There’s a melancholy coming from her which he can feel in his insides, eating at him even as she tries to separate her emotions from his.

“I am aware of how it sounds,” Lonato continues, and now the trickle of anger turns sad, “I have thought it over longer than you could imagine, and longer than you have, of that I have no doubt.”

He waves a single hand, a commanding and graceful gesture aimed at their crowd of none.

Little does he know it’s a crowd of one.

“I know it is for naught,” he says, “I know that the mighty Knights of Seiros-“

The contempt in his voice is palpable. 

“Shall crush me beneath their tyrannical boots,” he mutters, darkly, as his eyes begin to burn, “But it matters not. I will have my revenge for what they did to my boy.”  
Byleth closes his eyes for a moment, thinking of Jeralt’s words.

Even if it didn’t make sense. Even if it wasn’t the Church.

“On anyone?” Byleth offers, monotonously, without judgement.

Lonato inclines his head in affirmation.

“May the Goddess forgive me,” he agrees, his voice hollow and his plea for clemency very much fake, “Or not. I am an old man, and I have already buried my heart. If she is truly just, then she is with me. If she is not, then I have no need of her.”

Sothis snorts at that, though not particularly unkindly. She crosses the gap between them to stare up into Lonato’s eyes, as if examining his soul. Though he cannot see her, Byleth notes the slight discomfort in his posture. 

“Liar,” Byleth says, shortly.

Lonato blinks in shock, and then bristles, hackles raising in disbelief at Byleth’s tone.

“Excuse me?” he says, his voice low and dangerous. His weight leans forward, the wind biting at Byleth’s ankles for a moment as soft grasses glitter in the hazy sunlight.

“You’re lying,” Byleth repeats, but this time his tone is ever-so-slightly softer, “I teach your son. Ashe.”

Lonato’s gaze doesn’t waver in any obvious fashion. He doesn’t look away, nor does he hunch over, but there’s something in those eyes. An ache, a sorrow different from the one that burns at the core of his being. 

“He’s bright. Kind. Forgiving,” Byleth continues, “He loves you.”

Lonato looks very tired, but he doesn’t look guilty. He simply stands, impassive. Byleth stands too, though, and pointedly does not stop, nor blink.

“You were good to him,” he says, “You raised him well.”

Lonato lets out another sigh, as if he were expecting this yet still does not want to admit to it.

“That was a long time ago,” he says, coolly, “I was a different man.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Byleth answers, immediately, “Nor do I believe that you’d throw Ashe away, for your vengeance.”

Lonato’s brow furrows, a low build of fire which will soon explode into the inferno of rage.

“The dead will have their due,” is all he says.

It’s eerie- and it makes Byleth mad. Being angry is still so strange, yet it runs through him like electricity, like sand peeling off his skin. His eyes flash.

“They already did,” he answers, “The dead are gone. Either they want those who remain to live well, or they do not. Either way, they have no say in the affairs of the living.”

Lonato’s lip curls up, and this time he does take a step closer, a threatening one at that.

“Insolent cur,” he spits.

“Are you dead?” Byleth demands, taking a step closer in return as Sothis disappears into thin air, retreating back into his mind; if she speaks, he cannot hear it.

“I-“

“You are still alive,” Byleth snaps, “Act like it.”

Although saying such a thing brings him some temporary balm, a relief, he knows it’s the wrong thing to say. Lonato closes off, furious, so Byleth notes his mistake. He lets time wind back, over his skin, as Sothis’ words come through.

“Idiot,” she says, “You cannot meet his anger with your own.”

Right.

“What about Timothy?” he asks, this time, “That is your younger son, right? And Cadence?”

Lonato’s eyes narrow on Byleth, still cold.

“They will survive without me,” he answers, and Byleth doesn’t act on the trickling anger this time, instead letting it drip away. It’s not suited to him, anyway.

“Surviving is not living,” Byleth counters, “They’ll be traumatised, and ask what they did wrong for the rest of their lives, asking why their father loved them less.”

At that, Lonato’s face finally twists into a grimace. It should be satisfying, getting through to him, but it isn’t in the least. When he opens his eyes again, he looks equal parts resigned and suspicious.

“Some things cannot be avoided,” he says, quietly, “The moment that- Thunderstrike Cassandra- turned my boy in, this-“

He gestures around them again.

“Was set in stone,” he concludes. The wind rolls around them, the sun bathing them in sunlight for a moment before it recedes again behind the clouds.

“Nothing is ever certain,” Byleth says, even if he cannot be convinced of that himself, grasping at straws, focus, “It is a comfortable lie to take the responsibility away from you, but it won’t comfort those you leave behind.”

Lonato stands up straighter, tipping his head back to look at the sky.

“You offer me nothing but platitudes,” he mutters, darkly, “I cannot allow what was done to my son to go without punishment. I will not roll over for you heretics, no matter what you say of me.”  
Byleth purses his lips, seeing an opportunity.

“I’m not asking that you roll over,” he says, “I’m asking that you wait.”

Lonato blinks at that, visibly surprised and confused at the sudden turn. He goes silent for several moments.

“You… wish for me to… wait?” he confirms, slowly, looking at Byleth as if he has grown a second head.

Byleth nods slightly.

“The Church will not survive the winter,” he says, fear’s ghost on his spine before he can shrug it off, “There are bigger problems on the horizon, and Faergus will need you. Attack the Church after. Or don’t.”

Lonato’s expression goes immediately suspicious and stony, and closed off.

Damn.

The wheels of time tick backwards just enough to erase that part of the conversation.

“No matter what you say of me,” he finishes, darkly, finally, resolutely.

Different idea.

“What did your son do?” Byleth asks, then adds, “I want to hear it from you.”

Lonato looks at him, cautiously, and full of grief. The light glances off of his heavy armour, as if repelled.

“He was framed,” he answers, stiffly, “For his involvement in Duscur.”

He grits his teeth, hard enough that Byleth can see the muscles in his jaw tight, and grinds one foot forward into the dirt, as if squashing some misinformed bug.

“Pah!” he spits out, “It was a cover up- easier for the blasted Central Church to cover up their own involvement.”

Not true, but that misinformation is the least of their current concerns.

“What if he was exonerated?” Byleth offers, thoughtfully.

Lonato’s lips twitch, an echo of a snarl.

“Another empty platitude,” he answers, “It does no good now.”

“It would clear his name, and yours,” Byleth replies, frowning slightly, “And your legacy-“

“Fuck legacies,” Lonato interrupts, sharply, “I don’t want some stupid legacy, I want my son back. I want the boy I held in my arms to return to me.”  
The dead will have their due.

“He… sounds like he was a good man,” Byleth says.

Lonato scoffs, subtly, and looks away at the trees. He sighs, jaw twitching.

“Far better than any of those Knights,” he agrees, almost thoughtfully, almost as if he’s answering without thinking about his answers.

A crueller man would call it a weak spot.

“He sounds kind,” Byleth continues, coaxing the conversation in this direction, “Ashe spoke of him to me.”

“Eminently,” Lonato agrees, softly, frowning now, “He was.”

“Irreplaceable,” Byleth offers, closing his eyes for a moment. 

A blade through the back.

A blade through the front- but not this time, not again, I can’t lose you.

“He… is,” Lonato says, now looking straight at Byleth. There it is. Vulnerability. He’s listening, now.

“I don’t blame you for what you wish to do,” Byleth says, “But I do not want you to die doing it- and-“

Chancing it, Byleth takes a step closer to him, and another, until they’re in striking range.

“I can find the truth for you,” he says, and feels Sothis’ alarm in his mind, her hands on his hands, “In return, I ask you to stay your hand. You’re irreplaceable too. To your house, to your people, to Ashe.”

Lonato stares down at him. Emotions flicker in his eyes, all sorts of different ones, from grief to rage to sadness to hope, to anxiety and nothing, the absence that comes when one is pushed past breaking point.

Finally, he exhales.

“Ashe is lucky to have you as a professor, Byleth Eisner,” he says, cryptically, “Very well.”

Byleth holds his breath as Lonato turns around and climbs back onto his horse, hefting himself onto the huge stallion and giving the beast a pat on the neck before he takes the reins. He casts but one more glance at Byleth, and saying nothing, rides away.

“I hope that was enough,” Byleth muses.

_2nd of the Garland Moon, Midday._

“Let me get this straight,” Yuri says, kicking his feet as he sits across from Byleth, every movement sending dust and grit up into the silty air of Abyss, “You want me to chase down messengers for the Western Church because you think there’s a conspiracy going on?”

Byleth nods, raising a hand to wave away the dust, his nose wrinkling as he tries to suppress a sneeze. Yuri stops kicking his feet and instead folds his legs underneath him, going quite still in thought.

“Hm,” he says, helpfully.

It’s strange, the way that seeing any and all of them is strange.

The Yuri he remembers had grown into his already charming looks, from a handsome teen to a beautiful adult, with his ethereal, boyish charisma, in his lilac hair grown out long and always well groomed. Adult Yuri spoke softer, far less swift to jump to the old habit of defensiveness and was far more likely to tell you than the truth than lie just for the sake of it.

He can still remember how he’d lit up when they first met again.

“I’m glad you stayed,” Byleth said, and a flush had crept into Yuri’s cheeks immediately, a hand rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting down, almost demurely.

Younger Yuri still has those rough edges. It’s like looking into his memories- or looking into the memories of someone else.

“Do you think I’m crazy?” Byleth offers, monotonously.

Yuri chuckles, tilting his head to the side as he meets Byleth’s eyes.

“Oh, no,” he assures, “I don’t. Which is why this is a very strange thing to ask of me, a stranger. Who’s to say I won’t take this information and, I don’t know, inform your heretical friends?”

It’s amusing to imagine a version of Yuri who isn’t loyal to the Church, who isn’t fiercely loyal to his friends, who would rat out anyone just for a bit of coin. It’s the image he cultivates for himself, to throw his rivals off, but it’s the furthest thing from the truth.

“You won’t,” Byleth says, mildly.

“Oh?” Yuri offers, playfully, “Why’s that?”

“I trust you,” Byleth answers, his tone serious and genuine.

Yuri looks at him, registering this, before he bursts into a fit of laughter. If it’s defensive, or real, considering both the integrity and the ridiculousness of his statement, is hard to judge.

“What?” Yuri exclaims, sounding delighted, “Now I do think you’re mad- we’ve never met, why would you-“

“You have a trustworthy face,” Byleth says, a little put out by the teasing reaction- though it does nothing to affect the fondness he feels.

Yuri grins at him wolfishly, leaning closer as he does so.

“Thank you,” he purrs, snickering still, “I don’t think so, but thank you anyway.”

He pushes up from the table and stalks around to Byleth, circling him for a few moments. If it’s meant to be predatory, it doesn’t feel it. Though he rarely smiles outwardly, it warms him inwardly, nonetheless.

“That said,” Yuri adds, once he realises Byleth is unfazed by his actions, “I’ll do as you so politely asked. Because I like you.”

“Thank you, Yuri,” Byleth says.

“You’re welcome,” Yuri replies, both playfully and truthfully.

When he climbs out of the depths of the Abyss, there's a light rain in the air, alighting on tiny white petals which are beginning to sprout.

And Byleth has the most uncanny feeling that he is being watched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha, I am so sorry.
> 
> So! Uh, yeah. Life got super wild, huh? On the personal level, I actually (pretty much) finished my thesis but can't submit it because I can't pay the fees I incurred from being unable to pay them on time originally. Being broke is fun!
> 
> I recently picked my lunatic Blue Lions run and it rekindled my FE muse. As with last time, I don't want to make promises that I may not keep- but if you're reading this, I appreciate you more than you could ever know! <3

**Author's Note:**

> All views, comments, and kudos are wildly appreciated by yours truly. ♥
> 
> I drew up the aged up designs I'm using for Byleth and Sothis, you can find them [here](https://frostwyvern.tumblr.com/post/620755797396307968) if you're interested in taking a look!


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